


Hooking Up With Feelings

by peppermintkatie



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: As always - Terry is an asshole, Different first meeting but in any universe they find each other, F/F, He also has some body image/self esteem issues due to those creepy groomers from his youth, Ian is bipolar and has some anxiety about it, M/M, Mickey has panic attacks and related symptoms unfortunatly, Mickey has some serious self esteem issues due to internalized homophobia and toxic shame, oh and pretty sure Complex PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 63,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintkatie/pseuds/peppermintkatie
Summary: Mickey accidentally stayed the night after a failed hookup.Warning for cannon typical slurs and negative self-talk.  A vague reference to a traumatic event in Mickey's past - you know what it is.  Be sure to read the tags since this fic will deal with those themes heavily.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Svetlana Milkovich & Angie Zhago, Svetlana Milkovich/Angie Zhago
Comments: 218
Kudos: 289





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. She did a fantastic job!  
> All mistakes are my own as I tweaked it after her review.
> 
> Companion artwork for the chapter by [Luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//) is linked in the end notes.
> 
> Let me know if you are interested in translating this for me into another language. Someone has offered to do a translation into Russian once it is complete but open to other languages.

Mickey was suddenly awake with a startle and the hyper-awareness of someone who generally woke in an environment with many unsafe elements. Remaining still, he tried to calm his breathing so the rush in his ears would die down and he could effectively take in his surroundings; Mickey blinked a few times. He quickly realized he was in a bed, with sunlight streaming through a window on the other side of the room and casting a soft glow on light green walls. He slowly turned his head. He could see a tall ginger in the bed next to him, still sound asleep. Mickey’s brain was foggy with a vicious hangover, but he needed to urgently take a piss, so he quickly inched out of bed in search of the bathroom. He was in his boxer briefs and a white tank top that he had been wearing under his shirt last night; he would have to find the rest of his clothes after he took care of business. When he stumbled out of the room, he saw a door that likely lead to the bathroom halfway down the hall. He opened the door softly and flipped on the light letting out a breath when he realized he had been correct. He squinted at the sudden brightness when it caused stabbing pain in his aching skull and made his way over to the toilet. 

After enjoying the unique relief of emptying his bladder after a night of drinking, he moved over to the sink, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face. He glanced down and saw a toothbrush still in plastic sitting by the sink with a post-it note labeled: **_Mickey: For you._**

What the fuck? Who does that? Mickey wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth though when his own felt fuzzy. Using the toothpaste by the sink, he began brushing his teeth while he frantically tried to recall what all had gone down the previous evening. He could remember snatches of seeing the redhead moving alluringly on the dance floor. He had been sitting in a corner booth getting drunk while he tried to decide who he would take for a quick back alley bang. He was never good at this part, but he had started to feel that desperation in the pit of his stomach. He hated that feeling, it had been too long, and he had resolved to get his fix. Instead of cruising, he had been fascinated by the tall, lithe redhead and spent the evening covertly watching him while drinking vodka and beer. Typically these rare occasion evenings were relatively rote. Go to Boystown, down a few shots for liquid courage, find someone willing to give him the hard and fast fuck he wanted who also wasn’t too picky about the location. Bathroom, alley, occasionally the backseat of a car. Always one and done, he kept it clean. No names. No numbers. No morning after. 

Something must have gone wildly wrong last night. Starting with the fact that he apparently hadn’t been subtle because, at some point, Red had approached his corner table, bold as could be. There was a lot Mickey didn't remember from last night but looking up and seeing all that pale skin shining in the club’s blue flashing lights and the dark red hair looking like it was on fire; giving the tall man an alien look? He remembered that. He had been intensely hot and _that_ he recalled, and even now, it sent a shiver down his spine. 

It’s from there that things get really hazy; he can remember at some point agreeing to head toward the alley, but when he stood up he realized he was drunker than anticipated. It didn’t matter though; Mickey had been determined to get what he needed. 

He finished brushing his teeth, and he clenched himself; it was evident that he hadn't accomplished his goal last night. These evenings usually left him sore for a few days after; it was the only trophy he had from his swift liaisons. He’s not sure if he was more disappointed that he didn’t get what he came for or that he wouldn’t have been able to remember it even if he had. Swallowing his frustration, he focused on the task at hand. He needed to gather his belongings and head out before Red woke up. There was a time and place for these activities, and the light of day in some sort of morning-after situation was **not** it. 

Treading silently back to the room where he assumed he would find his clothes, he quietly opened the door. His brain was more online now than it had been when he first woke up, and he furtively looked around in an attempt to locate his clothes. His eyes caught on the bedside table where a glass of water and a dose of Tylenol had been placed. Another post-it note, **_Mickey: Take these._** The note, like the one in the bathroom, was in neat, print block lettering. This dude must be a serial killer. Mickey took the Tylenol to help with his head and then looked around again for his clothes, which he located, folded, in a chair by the window. Just as he was pulling his jeans over his hips, he heard the bedding rustle. Mickey’s heart began to pound. Without alcohol and nighttime as cover, he didn’t know how to do this. He had, in fact, never been to someone’s house for a hookup. He scrambled more quickly and picked up his boots, intent on carrying them out and slipping away through the front door.

“Hey,” he heard Red call to him before he could make his escape. His voice was rough with sleep. 

Feeling his face flame with embarrassment, Mickey avoided eye contact as he shrugged on his shirt. “Hey, yourself,” well, that sounded stupid, but he didn’t know what to say.

Glancing in the redhead’s general direction, he could see his eyes scrunch up with a smile. Even just looking at him from his periphery, Mickey had to admit he was goddamn beautiful, with his hair all over the place and pillow creases on his face. Mickey felt something warm, different than the embarrassment that was still there, heat from the pit of his stomach. It made him tense and watchful, but it also made him slow; he didn’t move to put his boots on.

“Let me take a piss, and then I’ll put on some coffee.” The ginger put words to actions and scooted out of bed and out the door before Mickey could say anything. And while he wasn’t trying to necessarily look, it was obvious that he had impressive morning wood. Mickey felt himself clench again, and that desperation that never entirely dissipated came roaring back.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered to himself. He could bolt out the door, but his feet seemed glued to the spot. He could hear the intimate sounds of the other man relieving himself and then brushing his teeth just like Mickey had done. Before Mickey could really decide to sneak out or not, he was back, slipping on some loose gray sweats over his boxers to go with the white tank he had slept in. Mickey didn’t know where to look. His impressive chest was on display along with hundreds of freckles that Mickey had to tighten his hands into fists to ensure they didn’t accidentally reach out to touch. His chest hair was a slightly lighter ginger than the vibrant hair on the top of his head. What was wrong with him? He didn’t **do** this; he tried not to even entertain thoughts like this. Even his back-alley hookups weren’t about touching or looking; they were about getting his base needs met and then moving on. Preferably moving on and pretending it never happened. 

The redhead finished getting his limited clothes on and then sauntered out of the room barefoot as though he expected Mickey to follow like some little puppy. Feeling his shoulders tense at the uncomfortable situation and feeling out of his element, Mickey followed at a slower pace. He walked down the hall and into a living room that shared space with a galley kitchen off to the side and a half wall with a counter and barstools. Trying to figure out how to extract himself from this confusing situation, Mickey sat on the couch to put on his Timbs so he could be ready to make a break for it when the time came.

“How do you like your coffee?” Okay, so apparently, they were at least doing coffee.

“Black,” he grunted back. Boots were on; he was ready to leave at a moment's notice. Looking up, he saw the light from a kitchen window hit the ginger’s hair and it created a fiery halo. If it didn’t sound gay as fuck, Mickey would think he looked like a beautiful angel. Firmly reminding himself he was trying to exit quickly, he stiffly sat back on the couch and tried not to fidget as his coffee was brought to him. 

The other man sat on the couch and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees as he took a sip of his coffee and then turned his head to survey him. Mickey quickly averted his eyes because he had absolutely not been staring at his profile. He took a gulp of coffee that was just shy of scalding and winced as it went down. 

With a smirk on his face, Red said, “You don’t remember much about last night, do you?”

Mickey just shook his head, feeling his cheeks heat as he wondered what he had done and said. His head was still a bit foggy, so he knew he’d had too much to drink.

“In case you don’t recall, my name is Ian,” Oh, thank fuck, that mystery was solved. “And you clearly had a lot to drink last night.” Mickey couldn’t do much but nod. With a sigh, “And nothing happened.”

Mickey had already figured out they at least hadn’t done anything significant, but he was unsure how he felt about the news they hadn’t done anything. Even if he couldn’t remember it, he wished he had gotten to experience being with someone so beautiful. Fuck, he needed to get out of here. “Sorry for the trouble,” he mumbled as he went to stand up. Suddenly there was a hand on his arm, and he was pretty sure he must have imagined the electric spark he felt even through the sleeve of his button-up. He gripped his hands around the mug, stopped moving except to turn his head to look at Ian with an eyebrow raised in question.

“You weren’t trouble, Mickey,” He said it so softly like Ian knew one wrong move could spook him. Mickey hated that he was absolutely right. He could already feel his skin itching with the need to get out and away. Out of this apartment where he had to make eye contact with someone who _knew_. Someone who maybe wanted to _do_ _stuff_ with him, or at least had wanted to last night. 

“I would like it if you stayed.” Just that simple statement with the slight smile on his lips and the gentle eyes gazing at him. Mickey was mute, he couldn’t say anything, and he didn’t know why but he nodded like he agreed to stay. He hadn't planned on agreeing, and he wasn't sure why he did.

Ian seemed to sense the tentative nature of the whole situation, removed his hand, shifted, and picked up the clicker to turn on the tv. Mickey sat beside him without moving. He felt the foot of distance between them keenly, unable to focus on some nature program Ian put on the tv. The show was just background noise. Still holding his cup of coffee, he leaned back into the grey couch, trying to loosen his limbs just a little. Ian mirrored his position. Now they were only two dudes watching a show. A nature show. He’s such a fag but watching the cinematic shots of meadows filled with elk or some shit, he could actually feel himself getting sucked in a bit. He felt his shoulders relax just a little, and when he wasn’t holding himself so tightly, he closed some of the gap between them. The whole thing felt daring in a way getting a blowjob in a club bathroom didn’t. 

It stayed like that for a bit, and then Ian slouched back further into the couch and somehow closed the remaining gap between them. Feeling slightly bold, Mickey spread his legs a bit until he was touching the other man. Now they were touching along one whole side, shoulder to thigh to knee, and the program wasn’t holding his attention any longer because all he could feel was Ian. In his space, Ian pressed into his side, making his hands twitch around his cup of cold coffee with the desire to touch. He never initiated touch, not like he wanted to touch Ian. He boned in back alleys or gas station bathrooms and sometimes in abandoned buildings in his teenage years. Always fast and dirty fucks that usually left him sore and always with utilitarian touch meant to facilitate the end goal. Lube, condom, fuck, and move on in that order. 

Except that one time and that ended terribly. One miscalculation when he thought he was safe; could let his guard down. He was still dealing with how poorly that had ended.

Even fleetingly thinking about that morning from back then and it all became too much. He felt his vision dim a little, and his breathing hitch. His hands began to shake, and he shot up off the couch and swiftly moved to the kitchen to deposit the cup in the sink. Tried to pull in a full breath. He needed to leave. He couldn’t put Ian, this beautiful motherfucking ginger, in danger, and he couldn’t let himself have this. Leaning on the sink, he continued to try and get his lungs to work. He needed a smoke so bad, it would help calm his nerves. With his eyes squeezed shut, he didn’t see Ian follow him, but he could sense his presence beside him. He couldn’t very well distinguish the low murmur of words Ian was saying but caught little phrases of reassurance. Which he didn’t fuckin’ need. He was fine. Once he could breathe, he would leave. 

He didn't know how long he stood there, leaning against the sink, trying to get a breath, but he knew it was too long to act like it didn’t happen, and he still couldn’t get his fuckin’ lungs to work. They were screaming at him, needing oxygen. Then one of Ian’s giant hands, with his long fingers, pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, and it was like it unlocked his lungs. Sucking in a huge breath, he felt his vision dim again before it brightened. His chest ached from his struggle, and as he focused on his hands pressed against the edge of the counter, the FUCK U-UP letters on his knuckles wavered, and he squeezed his eyes tight. He pulled several deep breaths into his lungs and exhaled; still with the warm hand between his shoulder blades, he finally felt his pulse slow down. As his breathing evened, his cheeks flamed, and his skin began to crawl as he felt vulnerable and the slide of hot shame flowed through him. It was _nothing_ like the heat that had started to simmer under the surface while they sat on the couch.

Wrenching away from Ian, Mickey couldn’t make eye contact, “I gotta go, man.” And he walked to the door after confirming he had his keys and wallet. Before he could open the door and make his escape it was slammed shut as Ian closed it with an arm over his shoulder. Ian crowded him close to the door with his other hand firmly on his upper arm. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, and Ian was at his back, surrounding him, caging him in. It should have made Mickey pissed, should have panicked him, or caused him to react violently, to at least try to twist away. Somehow it did none of those things, just made him feel held, contained, and, worst of all, safe. The shame that those feelings came from being in another man's arm, being gently overpowered, was also somehow more distant while in this position. Tensing, almost afraid to breathe, Mickey immediately went still, and his whole body and psyche were on high alert to the ginger at his back and what he was going to do.

Leaning down to speak quietly in Mickey’s ear, he felt Ian’s hand slide from his upper arm and travel across his chest, holding him against his front firmly. The arm on the door remained in place, and Mickey focused on the large hand splayed on the door in front of him and the fact that he could feel the heat radiating from Ian's body. “Mickey,” Just that for a moment, “I know you need to leave right now.” Mickey silently nodded his head in acknowledgment, “But I want you to come back.” Mickey swallowed the sudden spit that pooled in his mouth at the thought of returning, “Tonight.” One final squeeze of his chest, “I’ll be waiting.” And then he was free and able to slip out the door.

*******

Cracking a second beer Mickey downed half of it while looking across the street from a shop entrance alcove. Lighting a smoke, he continued watching the window of Ian’s apartment on the second floor. It was the middle of summer, and at this time of the evening, it had cooled off to a manageable temperature, but it was still muggy. He didn’t know why he had come back; he didn’t need to be here. He could even go to Boystown, get fucked hard, and be home by midnight. That was the cleanest option, least encumbered. He wasn’t known for making smart choices, and even though his hands shook a little and his stomach tightened in anxiety, he didn’t seem to be able to stay away. He wanted this, just once. It could just be one and done; who knows, maybe he would still be home by midnight. 

Svet knew he was out for the evening and why even though they never explicitly discussed it, she wasn’t going to ask questions no matter what time he stumbled in. Despite being married, they had a tacit agreement not to meddle in each other's personal lives. The marriage was no more than a stupid piece of paper; except it provided them both protection, albeit for different reasons. Finishing the last of his beer, he tossed the can, stamped out his cigarette, grabbed the remaining four beers, and walked across the street and into the building. Far too quickly, he stood outside the door to Ian’s apartment, where he had exited less than twelve hours before.

Running a hand down his face he decided to stop pussyfooting around and get this over with. Banging on the door slightly harder than was strictly necessary, he waited for Ian to open it. Ian opened the door, still barefoot and in low slung jeans and another tank top that showed off his chest, arms, and shoulders. He took it all in and couldn’t help the smile spread across his face as he appreciated the beautiful sight. Holding up the four remaining beers, he took Ian’s returning smile as an invitation in and handed them over as he walked past.

“Wasn’t sure you would show,” Ian took the beers and closed the door behind him. Ian handed a beer to Mickey, took one for himself, and put the remaining two in the fridge. Ian sat on the couch and gestured for Mickey to do the same. For a minute, both drank their beer, and Mickey’s eyes flitted around the well-lit room, seeing some framed artwork on the walls along with a laptop that was sitting open but blank on the coffee table with an unopened bag of corn chips next to it. Ian shifted to face him. “Did you have a nice day?” Mickey rolled his eyes at the inane conversation starter.

“You wanna chitchat, or you wanna get on me?” he responded as he set aside his half-empty beer and moved to undo his pants. 

  
And that quick Ian was on him, pressing him back into the couch and exploring his mouth. Mickey tensed up; kissing had never been part of this game; he wasn’t even really sure how to relax into it. Ian’s hands were cupping his face on either side as he lay flat on top of him, heavy and perfect. Normally he would threaten to cut a dude’s tongue out if they tried to kiss him. This situation had him off-kilter, and since he was unable to move his face away, Mickey felt himself give in, he opened his mouth to the exploration. Tentatively he settled his hands on Ian’s hips. He was along for the ride as Ian continued, tongue invading, moving his head to the side to go deeper. Mickey felt himself become overwhelmed in the best possible way, trapped beneath the weight of the other man. Twitching his hips, he tried to get friction and felt Ian grind down against him. This was so far outside of his experience of a back alley fuck that Mickey wasn’t sure what to do but couldn’t help but be yanked along to wherever Ian was taking him.

Ian’s hand snaked down into his undone jeans, cupping and stroking and Mickey let out a moan as he shuddered. He was so turned on, but he wanted Ian to fuck him, not just jerk him off, he could do that on his own. He was leaking and providing at least some slick as Ian continued. He broke away from the nearly all-consuming kiss, he felt like his lips were already tender and bruised, Mickey wasn’t above pleading, “Fuck me, c’mon I need you inside me, man.” Just the thought of the ache and burn ramped him up even further.

Giving one final stroke, Ian was off of him and pulling him up and behind him. Mickey found himself back in the bedroom he had vacated this morning and quickly disrobed. A bedside lamp was on and provided a soft glow to the room and the rumpled sheets and bedding. They both removed their clothes quickly. Clambering onto the bed, Mickey got on all fours, trying not to get lost in the novelty of doing this on a bed, which had only happened once before. He couldn’t think about that right now; it would ruin the moment for sure. Shaking his head, he focused on the present.

Luckily, he barely had time to have that thought run through his head before he felt Ian prepping him. One hand firmly on his hip while a slicked finger entered him. Pulling a pillow down to bury his face into, now surrounded by Ian's scent. Mickey groaned as a second finger entered him. It had been a while, so he was extra tight, but he focused on loosening his muscles and allowing the invasion. It was both a means to an end and its own pleasure as he felt his prostate being tapped and stroked, causing him to startle and push back, seeking more. As he rocked back on the two and then three fingers stretching him, he took his face away from the pillow and was just outright moaning in the most embarrassing way. Realizing it, he tried to hurry the engagement along to cover up his lapse. 

“C’mon man, I’m ready.” He didn’t know how to communicate any clearer, although he had felt Ian’s impressive length when grinding on the couch, and he was sure the prep would be worthwhile. He felt Ian remove his fingers and then heard the package as a condom was ripped open. He shuddered in anticipation. He tried to take a deep breath as he felt Ian finally begin to press into him, and it caused him to let out a deep groan.

Slowly but surely, Ian just pressed in, deeper and deeper; it felt endless and all-consuming. His whole world narrowed down to this act, being skewered relentlessly. There was nothing outside this moment, Ian fucking him open and being covered from behind by that strong chest. Arching his back and going down on his forearms, he felt himself take the last inch. Folding his much longer form over Mickey's back, Ian was once again covering him, and then his hands slid over the top of Mickeys. Mickey could see his FUCK U-UP knuckles woven tightly with Ian’s fingers as he was pinned and fucked. He wasn’t sure he had ever had anyone this deep, and he wished fleetingly that time could just suspend here, nothing before and nothing after. With his hands captured under Ian’s, he couldn’t pull the pillow back down to bury his face in. His face flamed as he heard himself mewling pathetically while he rocked on the cock lodged inside him. He couldn’t ever remember being this vocal, but he also couldn’t remember it ever being this good. He would feel this tomorrow, he knew; if he was lucky, maybe he could hold onto this feeling for a few days. That dark pit of anxiety momentarily abated while he had something else to focus on, something just for himself. 

  
Unable to cover his face with the pillow or even move his hands to muffle himself, prostrate on the ginger’s fat cock, Mickey felt utterly exposed. All he could do was take and feel, and it was awful, and it was glorious. Ian was hitting his prostate with most of his thrusts, and Mickey wasn’t certain he would even need further stimulation to his dick to come. He pushed back to meet the thrusts into him with what little leverage he was allowed and continued the steady stream of whimpers and moans.

“There ya go, takin’ it so good for me, Mickey.” Somehow hearing Ian using his name and the praise managed to ramp him up higher. He wanted to take it so good for Ian, could feel the need and desire coalescing in his belly, and at that moment, he wanted to give everything. He was being turned inside out.

“You gonna come for me?” Ian continued, and Mickey nodded. “Yeah?” More nodding and Mickey could tell Ian was close too. One hand was released, Mickey quickly twisted his fist in the sheets to hold on as his orgasm barreled down on him. Ian’s hand snaked down, and three jerks later, Mickey was coming hard, bowing his back as it ripped through him. It seemed to be the last straw for Ian as well as he thrust hard a few more times and then stilled as he shuddered and filled the condom. Both slumped forward, drained as they tried to catch their breath. 

Mickey was relaxed and boneless. He had perhaps never been this relaxed in his life; he felt like he was only semi-conscious. He registered Ian scooting him around and under the covers after doing a cursory wipe-up, and then the room was cast in darkness, and he was cocooned by the comforter and the warm body next to him. He drifted with the thought that he would enjoy the experience for a few more minutes, and then he would get up and go. A small smile tipped the corner of his mouth as he clenched, and instead of that empty feeling he’d had for too long, he felt stretched and sore just like he needed. He was certain it would last for a bit, and the last thing he recalled before sleep claimed him was a deep sense of peace. 

The next time he was somewhat conscious, it was the timeless space before dawn, and he woke up enough to realize he and Ian were slowly grinding together. Ian had his forehead between his shoulder blades and a leg thrown over his thigh. Mickey was loosely trapped but still able to rub back against the hardon that was sliding between his ass cheeks. Doing what he could to scoot back and rub a bit more firmly against Ian got him a deep groan.

“How’re you?” It was a loaded question, and Mickey knew what was really being asked. Could he go another round after their rough fucking from the night before?

“Good, I’m good.” He tipped his hips in an invitation, Mickey made it clear, “Let's go.”

“You sure? Don’t want you to be too sore; went pretty hard last night.”

Ugh, who was this fucker? Mickey was slightly impatient; if he had cock this good on tap for a limited period, he didn’t care how sore he was. “Yeah, hurry up.” He thought he’d hear more protest, but instead, he got the sound of another condom being opened and then felt additional lube being pushed into him.

Slowly, much slower than the night before, Ian entered him, inch by inch. They both groaned deeply. And yeah, okay, the stretch and burn were intense after last night, but that seemed to only make Mickey’s dick twitch harder. It was a slow and steady build, with both of them sleepily undulating their hips together. Ian’s hand casually slid down his chest and found his cock and began lazily stroking him. The languid pace never really picked up, and they both tipped over the edge softly at close to the same time. Ian gently bit into his shoulder but not hard enough to meaningfully mark him. Mickey wanted hard teeth marks on his shoulder, something that would stay under his clothes for days after; however, the moment passed, and he was still grateful for what he had gotten. Ian shuffled around, took care of the condom, and then they both drifted back to sleep.

Waking up fully in the morning light, Mickey once again oriented himself to his surroundings. There was less panic this morning, but he also felt the itch under his skin as daylight streamed into the room. This little bubble had been nice, and he’d finally gotten the fucking he needed, but it couldn’t last. He didn’t have to look over to know that Ian wasn’t in bed beside him because he could hear him puttering around in the kitchen. Taking a moment to put on his jeans and tank top, he grabbed his shirt and boots and made it to the bathroom. Relieving his bladder and brushing his teeth with the toothbrush Ian had left out for him, he rolled his eyes. What a soft bitch. All of this felt a little deja vu from yesterday. Planting himself back on the couch, he put his boots on as a steaming cup of black coffee appeared on the table in front of him. He could smell bacon cooking but wasn’t confident what the protocol was the morning after. He really hadn’t intended to stay overnight, **again**.

Before he could formulate too much of a protest or excuse to leave, Ian returned with a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. Smiling shyly in thanks, Mickey accepted the plate but couldn’t make eye contact. Thinking of what they did last night, what he, in fact, had begged for Ian to do to him, made him squirm. Here Ian handed him a plate of food and sat beside him with his own food - like it was normal. The domesticity of it was jarring, so different than how he had grown up or what he had with Svet. They had a certain rhythm and had figured out how to work with each other and co-parent while giving each other space, but it was never just comfortable. The paradox struck him, this person he had known for barely more than a day, and he felt more at ease. The food he had been slowly eating congealed in his stomach. He needed to walk away. For _so many_ reasons.

As though sensing his imminent departure, Ian set aside both of their plates and settled a firm hand on the back of Mickey’s neck. Mickey hated how comforting it was, somehow settling all the jumping anxiety pinging inside him. 

“You don’t have to go so quickly.” Mickey opened his mouth to protest, “But if you need to go, then I understand.”

For whatever reason, Mickey seemed to have difficulty finding his voice, so he settled on nodding.

“I hope you will think about coming back.” This was said as Ian leaned forward and kissed his temple. An affectionate gesture that Mickey had no idea what to even do with it. 

He could barely get out, “Thanks” as he stood and swiftly moved to the door. Shit, this is one of many reasons why he didn’t do the morning after. And then he was out the door and soon the building. Striding away quickly, he was **not** running. Just the same, he felt the sore ache of such an intense night and couldn’t help smiling a little to himself. He had to go back to his world, his wife and son, but for just a little while, this had been a nice escape. He didn’t bother spinning tales about it being more; it could never be more. Beautiful gingers weren’t meant for Mickey Malkovich, and even if he could have him, he couldn’t keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not over yet even if Mickey thinks it is. 
> 
> Comments are love and I am also open to (gentle) feedback. 
> 
> Luluxa has created two beautiful companion art pieces for this chapter and you can find all of her work here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)
> 
> [By The Door](https://https://64.media.tumblr.com/9555fe06fe61ab5ec1d43064965a72c7/e02388bf3904b217-c6/s1280x1920/4bade6126aa3de95358f6aad9a0a5fe1dd1ccd12.jpg)  
> [In Bed](https://64.media.tumblr.com/3a4b9c3d9b416fa1a4cfe64b3cfff7e9/e02388bf3904b217-e0/s1280x1920/762e20143a4078d2f171fa22e3a684fde0d0b83e.jpg)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian decides he needs more Mickey in his life and is going to make it happen.
> 
> Warning for cannon typical slurs and negative self-talk, you can assume this will be throughout the fic. 
> 
> I know for many this has been a rough week, hope everyone is hanging in ok and this gives a little diversion. However, take care of yourself and if angst isn't best for you then enjoy the art and hold off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. She did a fantastic job!  
> All mistakes are my own as I tweaked it after her review.
> 
> Companion artwork for the chapter by [Luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//) has been linked in the end notes.

He was not manic. He wasn’t. He was sure he wasn’t. He was just excited, right? And nervous. That’s normal, he reminded himself, he had years of reminding himself of this, but it could be hard to tell sometimes. Because hypomanic could start out feeling the way he had been feeling, sometimes it indicated his medications needed to be adjusted again.

He finally got the call he had been hoping to receive for the past several months. The shot of adrenaline had hit his system hard, and he was jittery as fuck; his hands had a slight tremor, and his stomach was doing summersaults. With a little luck he was going to see Mickey tonight. He didn’t know what to expect; he wasn’t even sure what was reasonable to hope for. Well, that wasn’t true; he knew what to hope for. He wanted more time with Mickey, more making out, more fucking, more, more, more. He hadn’t been able to get him off his mind. That was the other reason he was worried about his moods. He had been obsessive, relentlessly focused except when he was scattered.

Stopping, closing his eyes, he took three slow deep breaths in and out. Letting the tension in his shoulders go as he tried to relax into the mindfulness exercise. It helped to at least regain some control and calmed him down.

He reminded himself he hadn’t been out fucking everything that moved, hadn’t neglected his routine, he didn’t go off his medication, he didn’t spend too much money. He still enjoyed a few smokes a day, but he wasn’t chain-smoking. All signs pointed to excitement and not him on an upswing of controlled mania that required a medication check.

His medication mostly balanced him out, but his moods could still be a bit of a see-saw, and he had to pay attention. He had gone through too many cycles by now not to take seriously any signs that his regimen had stopped working, and he was about to derail. Worse yet, in the fog and excitement of mania, the temptation to dive in and enjoy the upswing had meant forgoing the medication in the past, which had disastrous consequences.

Shaking his hands when he realized he had clenched them hard enough to have white knuckles just thinking about the extended periods in his youth when he had refused to participate in being stable. Trying to avoid thinking of his nearly two-year spiral, he repeated his breathing exercise again. Refusing to stay medicated had resulted in two rounds in the psych ward before he was on the path to having a good combination of medications at a proper therapeutic dose. What he could remember of the reckless activities he had engaged in during his mania had scared him into being committed to taking charge of his mental health. He was dedicated to not going down that path again.

He had built routines that helped buoy him when he was floundering. He limited his exposure to activities that could set him back. He mostly avoided the things he knew triggered his mania or depressive cycles. Closing his eyes and doing one final round of breathing, he sent a plea to the universe that this, whatever this was, wasn’t one of those things.

In the days after Mickey left his apartment the second time, he had the unsettling realization he wanted something other than a one-time hookup. Although he had left Mickey with an open invitation, they hadn’t exchanged contact information to arrange anything further, and that had initially been fine. Except it left no way to reach out when Ian couldn’t get the man off his mind. He had agonized if he should even consider trying for something more meaningful between them, assuming he could even locate him. He contemplated if he wanted to open himself up that way, especially to someone like Mickey, who it seemed obvious had a number of demons chasing him. A person, who by all indications, most certainly was still in the closet. Ian hadn’t been interested in anyone for more than a hook-up for a long time. He had been focusing instead on things like his health and career, so this intense interest had taken him by surprise. Something in him felt drawn to Mickey, wanting to understand his story and explore the undeniable chemistry they shared.

Somehow less than twenty-four hours with Mickey had turned him inside out with wanting and curiosity that quickly turned into something that bordered on obsession.

He had returned to The White Swallow the following weekend, the club they had initially met in, and each weekend since to do a round and see if he could spot Mickey. In his teens and in the first of several manic, drug-fueled hazes, he had danced there illegally under the stage name Curtis. Ian was never sure if he was glad he couldn’t really recall too many specific details during those days or if it was actually terrifying. He tried not to think about it too much, or he would slip into an anxiety spiral, so he let the memories of dancing, being adored and groped flit through his brain and made no effort to hold onto the memories or make the edges sharper. Ian couldn’t remember most of his former coworker's faces, and likely most of them had turned over in the time since he was dancing, but he recalled Bobbie. Bobbie, still trying to live out his youth's glory days by working as a bartender in the club where he had previously danced. Ultimately he had been around a really long time and was always a friendly face on the evenings Ian went back to let his hair down.

Not surprisingly, Bobbie had seen Ian with Mickey that night and, when asked, had agreed to contact Ian if Mickey came back through the doors. And he’d called. Said Mickey showed up at the club fifteen minutes ago, ordered a whiskey neat, and was sitting in the back corner booth like he had been the last time. Ian needed to get to The White Swallow and see what his chances were of convincing Mickey to go another round, or two and maybe, just maybe, see if there could be more.

Forty-five minutes later, at a quarter past eight, he entered the club. He had showered, gelled his hair lightly, and pulled on tight jeans he knew made his ass look phenomenal. He had pulled back the sleeves of his forest green Henly to show off his forearms. The shirt was just a little too tight but perfectly displayed all the extra working out he had been doing to burn off his excess energy. He looked good, and he knew it, so as long as Mickey was still into tall gingers, he should have a shot. And last time Mickey had been into him, _really_ into him.

He recalled his slurring compliments, including telling him he looked like a beautiful alien, which had made him laugh because that had been one compliment he had never received before. When the end of the evening came, and it was clear Mickey had imbibed too much to actually engage in any sexual activity, Ian had still chosen to bring him home. Looking after inebriated almost hookups wasn’t really his thing, at least it never had been before. But that night he made a snap decision, and instead of dumping him in an Uber to take him back to wherever he lived, he had taken him to his own apartment.

Mickey had tried multiple times to proposition him drunkenly, had groped him a bit. Or it would have been groping, but his aim was hilariously off, and he mostly just landed hands on his hips and chest. He had mumbled several times his comfort with Ian just having a go at him, letting him know he didn’t need any of that pussy ass shit like preparing him; he could take whatever Ian dished out. To be honest, that kind of had made Ian’s heart ache thinking of all the ways Mickey may have been treated in his previous sexual encounters to believe that wasn’t necessary or expected. To think he didn’t deserve that level of consideration.

If nothing else, he had figured he could care for this man for one evening. Mickey had pretty much passed out once Ian got him on the bed. Removing his pants and shirt, he had folded them and put them on the chair in his bedroom, placed Mickey in the recovery position, and then left out a toothbrush and Tylenol for when he woke up with little post-it notes. Then, after changing into his own nightclothes, he had crawled into bed beside him and stared for a while before turning out the light and falling asleep. Mickey might have thought Ian was beautiful, but Ian thought Mickey was remarkably attractive for all of his rough edges. The next night they had their fun, and it had still seemed like it was only going to be a one-off thing, but now he hoped he was wrong. He wasn’t making the same mistake twice by letting Mickey walk away again without an ability to reconnect if at all possible.

Ian spotted him, sitting in the same booth where they had first met with a whiskey neat in front of him. If possible, he was pressed even further back into the corner of the booth than he had been that first night. Mickey had a relatively good view of the dance floor, which Ian could see he was watching intently. Getting a beer for himself before he could be spotted, he took the opportunity to check out who was on the dance floor to assess if there was any competition he needed to worry about. This early in the evening, there weren’t many out shaking it yet. Deciding boldness was his best bet, Ian sauntered over to him. He could see the moment he was recognized. Mickey tucked his tongue into the corner of his mouth and looked away momentarily, then turned back and slowly checked Ian out from top to bottom. He had a small smirk on his face and a raised eyebrow as Ian continued approaching. That wasn’t a look of rejection, which was all Ian cared about at the moment.

If nothing else, Ian knew how to use his body to get what he wanted, had used it as a commodity on more than one occasion in the past. He slid right into the open seat on the bench in one smooth move, effectively trapping Mickey against the opposite wall, and pressed their thighs together. Mickey stiffened at first, clearly not expecting to have had his space invaded, and did a quick look around. Once he had assured himself very few people could see him, he slowly let out a breath. He slouched down a bit and manspread those fine thick thighs so he was pressing back against Ian’s even more snugly. Ian had to stop himself from shivering, knowing how prominently those thighs had featured in his jerk-off sessions over the past few months. He wanted to bury his face in Mickey's thigh crease and then blow the fuck out of him.

Seeing no reason to hide it, “I’ve been looking for you.” Ian stated.

Mickey's eyes slid away again, and he was back to biting his lower lip. Ian could see him swallow. Finally, turning around and making aggressive eye contact with that left eyebrow climbing practically into his hairline, Mickey responds, “Oh yeah?” After a beat, his bravado faded, and he quickly picked up his drink to take another sip. Ian took the opportunity to do the same with his beer, letting the silence and tension spin out between them a little bit. He also noted Mickey didn’t pull back on the body contact they currently had.

Deciding he liked to see him when he was all crowded and a bit off-balance, Ian turned his body more directly to face Mickey, so he was caging him in, putting his arm along the back of the booth and lightly running his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He felt the small tremble. Ian also reached across to land his other hand heavily on Mickey's thigh. He thought his hands might get batted away, but as he gently moved his hand along Mickey's tight trim line, he actually watched as his eyes dropped closed momentarily. He swallowed audibly but didn’t pull away and, if possible, slouched even deeper while pressing into the hand at the back of his head. He was pushing closer without acknowledging that’s what was happening. Ian felt his confidence surge at all the positive signals he was getting from Mickey; he wasn’t sure Mickey realized how many tells he was showing.

“What did you want?” The eye contact returned, with both eyebrows raised, but a bit more tentative and shy. Before Ian could respond, Mickey casually redirected his gaze over to the dance floor.

Taking it as the opener he needed, Ian responded, “I want a lot, Mickey, but I’ll settle for getting out of here.” Giving it a pause, he lifted his own brow in inquiry when Mickey's eyes returned, “you game?” What he really wanted was to pull Mickey onto the dance floor. To slide their bodies against each other to the beat of the music, get each other ramped up, and then find a place to relieve the pressure, even if it was a dirty hand job in a bathroom stall, before going back to his place. What he really wanted was to bend Mickey over the table and rub one out between the cheeks of his fine ass. What he really wanted was to magically fold his tall body below the table and take Mickey's cock in his mouth and suck him until he lost his goddamn mind. He didn’t think Mickey was up for that kind of public display right now even though he was hanging in the corner of a gay club. Hedging his bets, he left the invite open-ended. The music's loud beat made it hard to have a conversation, but they were now sitting sufficiently close to overcome that obstacle momentarily.

Twisting his expressive mouth sideways a bit, Mickey seemed to think about the question. Then he swallowed the last of his whiskey and set the glass down, “Aight Big Red,” and with a flip of his hand shooing him out of the booth, “lead the way.”

Just like that, they were back outside the club, keeping at least a foot between them because now, on the street, they were nothing more than two people walking alongside each other, even if they were in Boystown in the early September weather. It was a nice evening to be out and about since it was warm without being sweltering. Trying to debate his best option between convincing Mickey to go for a bite to eat or straight back to his place, his stomach helped make the choice. He’d been in such a rush to get to the club he hadn’t eaten before leaving and was getting hungry.

“Wanna grab a burger from a joint around the corner?” There was a low-key pub on the edge of the gay district that didn’t get the same influx as all the restaurants and clubs directly on the main strip, and Ian had been to it several times. From what he recalled, they had a good burger and an apathetic vibe he thought Mickey would feel comfortable in.

Keeping up his unaffected and disinterested air, Mickey lit a cigarette and shrugged in agreement. Heading across the street and down a block, they walked silently beside each other. Ian held out his hand to see if Mickey would pass the cigarette so he could have a drag. After a brief sideways look, he passed it over. Ian took a few drags and handed it back, a tiny bit giddy with the intimacy of it.

As they approached the pub Mickey flicked the cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it under heel, blowing the smoke out before entering the little pub behind Ian. It was dim and grungy, and patrons would do best not to scrutinize their surroundings too closely. The bartender behind the bar made a vague arm gesture that universally meant seat yourself, and Ian led the way to the back of the space where an open booth provided them the maximum amount of privacy. He made the snap decision to slide into the nearest side of the booth that would have his back to the restaurant and left the bench seat facing the rest of the dining room to Mickey. He seemed like someone who wanted to know if anyone was coming up on him.

Now ensconced in the booth, Ian glanced up as Mickey hovered just outside the booth. He could see him checking out his surroundings and maybe even questioning his decision to come, but he gave a little shake of his head, slid in and settled. Ian handed him one of the small menus that had been tucked amongst the condiments with an endorsement, “I have had the patty melt and the cheeseburger, both were really good.” The menu was pretty straightforward with only burgers and a few sandwiches as options, but Mickey stared at it intently.

A slim woman who was well into her sixties, and likely a heavy lifetime smoker if the deep grooves around her lips were any indication, approached the table. She wore pristine white tennis shoes, dark blue jeans, a purple t-shirt, and a plastic nametag with “Ginger” engraved on it. Her black waist apron's ties were wrapped around her tiny waist several times and tied, and she came with an order pad and pen poised to take their order. Even before she opened her mouth, it was clear Ginger had a no-nonsense attitude. “What can I get you boys?”

Jumping in when Mickey didn’t immediately respond, he ordered the cheeseburger, fries and a coke. Ginger scribbled it down in shorthand and then turned to Mickey, who basically grunted out, “Same” as he tucked the menu back to where it had come from, and Ian followed suit. Nodding her head, Ginger stepped away without further comment.

Distraction gone, Mickey crossed his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow again. Ian could tell if he was going to spend an extended period of time with Mickey, he would have to learn to read those brows the same way other people read full facial expressions. Ian guessed it was on him to start off the conversation. He intuitively knew it might be dicey with Mickey getting defensive over questions that were too personal. However, Ian was determined to get to know him and was prepared to be persuasive to that end.

“I was really happy you were at the club tonight.” Ian could feel his cheeks heat in embarrassment, but it was important Mickey know, without overwhelming him, that Ian had desired more time together, that he had, in fact, made an effort. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he sure wanted to explore. He debated how much of his hand to show and finally just went for it, “I been looking each weekend hoping to see you again.”

Mickey didn’t really respond to that, but the pale skin from his neck up heated with an embarrassed flush, and he nervously scratched his eyebrow with his thumb, looking away. Giving a little hum of acknowledgment appeared to be the only response Mickey was going to give.

Ian tried another tactic, “What have you been up to, man?”

“Not much, just working and stuff.” Mickey wasn’t going to disclose much without probing, and Ian was trying to figure out what wouldn’t be pushing too much. He always pushed; it was one of his most annoying habits, according to his siblings and sometimes coworkers.

“Oh, what do you do?” Gentle push.

“Work the warehouse at the market on Cermak” He shrugged as he said it and made it clear he didn’t think much of his work.

“You get to drive a forklift?” Ian couldn’t help but imagine Mickeys tight body whipping through a Wearhouse on a forklift, moving product from one place to another. The image honestly tickled him, and he could feel himself smiling. Although he was just getting to know Mickey, Ian was willing to bet that Mickey would be loud and a bit bombastic in his element. A big personality to make up for his small stature.

With a quiet snort, Mickey confirmed. “Yeah, I drive the forklift. It’s really not that exciting.” He would have left it there, not said anything further. Then he took a big breath, and it was apparent he decided to add a bit more. “The most exciting thing is the beatdown I’m gonna give to the fat fucking mick who keeps stealing my jello when I catch him.”

The comment caught Ian off guard, and he laughed, “High drama at the warehouse?”

“Yeah, something like that” But at least Mickey relaxed a bit, and that smirky smile was back on his face. “Only so many places a parole officer can help secure employment,” said with an offhand shrug.

“Ah, did some time?” Given the knuckle tattoos and the strong South Side vibe he gave off, Ian wasn’t all that surprised, really.

Mickey sniffed, rubbed his eyebrow again with a finger, and confirmed, “Yeah,” and to Ian's surprise, he didn’t seem totally shut down to talking about it.

“I’m taking a wild guess you grew up South Side?” The snort of derision Ian took as confirmation. “Me too,” Ian shared.

“No shit?” Mickey seemed genuinely surprised and Ian tried not to take it personally. He knew he cleaned up well, and just being out and about in Boystown was risky for many who lived in the gritty world of Chicago’s South Side with its rampant homophobia and violence. He watched Mickey’s face as many of those conclusions were drawn at a lightning-fast speed, “Which part?” A little suspicious, like he wanted to see if Ian was just playing him.

“Canaryville” At that, Mickey reared back and quickly puffed a breath out through his mouth; Ian would have missed it if he wasn’t watching him so closely. It was apparent to him that something had spiked his anxiety.

“Fuck me,” Mickey said quietly; and then asked, “What’s your fuckin’ last name?”

Confused by the turn in questions, Ian answered anyways, “Gallagher,” and watched as Mickey’s eyes closed, face scrunched tight before he took a deep breath, released it, and finally opened his eyes.

“Your one of Frank Gallagher’s kids, aren’t ya?”

Shaking his head a little in surprise, he confirmed, “Um, yeah.” He wasn’t going to get into a technical discussion about Frank biologically being his uncle. This conversation wasn’t for those kinds of details and disclosures. “You know my family?”

“I know fuckin’ Frank. Had to collect from him several times.” Ian knew what that meant. Frank had never been good at keeping his commitments, even if it was to pay up to his drug dealer. It had caused problems for the family numerous times. Shaking his head, he commented, “I remember he said he had a bunch of kids, but every time I saw him, he was fall-down drunk.” Ian knew it was unlikely Frank would have _only_ been drunk. Given Mickey had been trying to collect payment from Frank, he obviously was aware.

Grimacing at the thought of Frank, Ian sighed, “Yeah, that sounds about right.” He returned the question, “What’s your last name?”

Jaw clenching, “Milkovich.”

“Holy fuck, you one of Mandy’s brothers?” He said it in a loud whisper as he tried to wrap his mind around that reality.

“How the fuck do you know, Mandy?” Now, Mickey leaned forward with his eyebrows snapped down in a harsh frown and stared intently with eagle eyes. It was an intimidating look.

“We went to high school together, were actually pretty good friends.” He didn’t want to go into details about why he had lost touch, and this time it was his eyes that slid away. He tried to place Mickey in highschool since they must have been around the same age. “How come I don’t recall you from high school?” He scrutinized Mickey’s face, “I feel like I would remember you.”

Mickey finally leaned back, took a big breath, and blew it out. “Dropped out, spent most of that time in and out of Juvie.” More shrugging it off, “Didn’t matter anyway. I was already fucked for life, man.”

Ian wanted to deny it, but he also knew Mickey was likely right. He was saved from trying to find the right words when their food arrived, and they both dug in and took a few bites before continuing; this time, the conversation was picked up by Mickey.

“What about you, what do you do for work?” He glanced up but quickly occupied himself with dragging fries through the puddle of ketchup he had squeezed out in his basket.

Ian could see that being off the hot seat to answer questions tangibly relaxed Mickey. Ian was confident Mickey had been considering walking out when he realized the connections between their families, but he was settling. Ian watched him run his hand along the back of his hairline, the hairline Ian had been stroking earlier. A hairline that Ian decided looked freshly trimmed with the hair on top a bit longer and just enough style to show there was product in it. Ian desperately hoped to be able to bury his nose in the back of Mickey’s neck by the end of this evening and smell him. The memory of his earthy smell layered with the scent of his last smoke had been comforting and had soothed him. He had caught the scent several times tonight, and it was affecting him in the same way while also turning him on; he could feel himself harden a little.

Clearing his own throat and trying to focus, he responded, “EMT. Been doing that for a few years now.”

“No shit?” Mickey actually looked legitimately impressed, “You get to play god then?” Said as a question but more of a statement.

Chuckling, Ian shook his head. “Nah, not so much. My job is just to keep them alive on the way to the hospital.” He dismissed the notion of being god-like out of hand but could feel his face heat as he thought about how he would have accepted that label during his Gay Jesus phase. Clearing his throat, he offered up a few more details to keep the conversation going, “Some days are more intense than others. Big wrecks, house fires, and those kinds of events can be hard.” Shrugging a little, “Frequently, it’s checking vitals for people who may have had a heart attack or stroke as we transport them to the hospital and can be routine with long periods of downtime waiting for a call.” He confirmed with a small smile, “But I really love it.”

Mickey smiled at him, something he hadn’t really seen him do yet. And wow, was it special, it lit up his whole demeanor. Mickey quickly tucked the smile away and refocused on his burger. Ian noticed the knuckle tattoos again. The ink was a bit faded and blurry at the edge, indicating it had been done awhile ago. Jutting his chin at them, he inquired, “What’s the story with those?”

Mickey put his burger down instead of taking a bite and pursed his lips to the side, seeming to consider what he wanted to say and finally gave in. “Family thing, my brothers and dad have them too.” He held up his fingers to look at the tattoos as if he was noticing them for the first time in a long time.

Ian had heard some brotherhoods and Families in the South Side, most with latent white power ideologies, that had similar traditions. Those were usually families you didn’t fuck with, so the tattoo seemed apropos. Ian knew from discussions with Mandy that their dad was no joke. He vaguely recalled stories about the brothers running as a pack throughout Canaryville; violence and mayhem had been their specialty. They weren’t to be crossed. Ian shivered at the realization that he was sitting across from a closeted Milkovich brother. Instead of having an ounce of self-preservation and trying to take a few steps back, he was even more intrigued. He knew himself well enough to know he wasn’t going to be the one to end this anytime soon.

“How old were you when you got them?” Another push.

Rubbing his thumb against his nose Mickey took a deep breath and disclosed, “Thirteen. My dad did the tattoos just like he did my brothers. It was a right of passage.” And with that, Mickey shrugged, and Ian was confident he wouldn’t get any additional details on the topic right now. “You got any tattoos?”

Ian realized that given the way they fucked last time, it was unlikely Mickey would have seen either of his tattoos. He could feel his neck burn hot at explaining the one on the back of his shoulder, and frankly, he didn’t really want to explain the details around the one on his side either. Still, he was trying to get to know the man across from him, and although it was a topic he didn’t relish discussing, he could skim over some of the finer details without issue. “Uh, yeah, I have two actually. One is an American eagle carrying a machine gun in its claws,” One of Mickey’s eyebrows went up in inquiry on that, so he gave a bit more detail. “I was really obsessed with the military when I was younger, did the whole ROTC thing, but it didn’t end up working out.” That broad statement covered the more complicated reasons and consequences of how he had tried to join the military. Mickey mirrored his shrug of acceptance. They both grew up on the South Side; they knew how childhood dreams were trampled for many different reasons. “And a huge set of tits on my back left shoulder.”

Both eyebrows shot sky high, and Mickey nearly choked on the sip of soda he was taking. “Wait, what?”

Ian figured his face probably matched his hair by now. “Yeah, it was supposed to honor my mother, Monica, who died a few years ago, but the dude doing the tattoo apparently didn’t catch that part?” Said with derision, “I dunno what he was thinking, but I haven’t gotten it covered up yet.” Rubbing his face to try and scrub away the embarrassment, he watched Mickey’s face with fascination.

His eyebrows settled down as he gave a soft snort of laughter, and suddenly his whole aura seemed to relax similar to when he had smiled earlier. He just shook his head ruefully and then made intentional direct, sustained eye contact for the first time all night, “Can't wait to see those.”

Ian cleared his throat, realized they had both finished their meal, and simply stated, “Ready when you are.” And just like that, they were up and out.

From the moment Mickey nodded his head that he was ready, to the Uber ride back to Ian’s place, and through the door, it couldn’t have been more than a half-hour. It was a half-hour of barely touching, and Ian felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin with their close proximity. Neither said much, sitting on their side of the backseat bench with just the edge of their knees touching. They mostly pretended to stare vacantly out the window, but Ian was sure they were both keenly aware of the other. He was half-hard, and from surreptitiously checking out the bulge in Mickey’s jeans, he was too. What did catch his eye was Mickey's phone, held under his palm and against his thigh. Mickey was tapping his fingers against it nervously.

Knocking his knee against Mickey's and causing him to turn and look at him, Ian motioned with his chin at the phone and held out his hand. Mickey squinted at him, and it was apparent he debated if he wanted to give in or not. With a huff, he unlocked his phone and handed it over, opened to the contact screen. Ian didn’t need to be told twice; he quickly added his contact, snapped a selfie for the profile pic, and texted himself so he would have Mickey’s contact information on his phone as well. All of it took less than thirty seconds, and he handed the phone back to Mickey, who shook his head as though he was put out, but as he turned to look back out the window, there was a small smile playing at his lips.

Practically tumbling through the door in their mutual eagerness to get to a private space, Ian had Mickey pinned up against the door seconds later with his tongue in Mickey's mouth and his hand down his undone jeans. Mickey was hard and leaking, helping to naturally ease the glide of his palm. He could tell he had a nice girth and size, and the thought of getting him into his mouth was overwhelming. Sliding down to his knees, he yanked Mickey's jeans down to reveal his cock and those delicious thighs. Ian felt a jerk in his lower abdomen at the thought of marking them up, and without thinking much further, he leaned in to inhale Mickey's scent at the crease of his thigh. Continuing to use his hand to stroke Mickey's dick, he put a sucking kiss just below the crease and then sunk his teeth in, careful not to bite too hard.

Mickey went wild. Ian felt his hand slide in his hair and grip; Mickey pressed his face, and consequently, his teeth harder into the meaty part of his own thigh. Taking the hint, Ian firmly marked that side and then switched to leave a similar mark at the top of his other thigh. The high keening moan was a strong indicator that Mickey really liked what was happening. Once Ian was sure there would likely be bruises left for a few days, he couldn’t resist that cock in his peripheral vision any longer and took him in his mouth. Feeling his thickness slide to the back of his mouth and then throat was turning Ian on unbearably. Reaching down, he undid his own pants and began lightly stroking himself to give some relief without trying to move his pleasure along too quickly. He didn’t have the stamina of his youth due to the cocktail of medications he was on and didn't want it to be over.

“Ugh, so good,” Mickey whispered above him. He momentarily tightened his hands in Ian’s hair and thrust his hips but then seemed to catch himself and backed off. Looking up, Ian could see his face awash in a look of pure lust, eyes squeezed shut and jaw hanging open, breath coming roughly. Humming his own pleasure at seeing Mickey give himself over so entirely, he redoubled his efforts and carefully worked towards taking him down his throat and swallowing. Mickey’s breath hitched at that, and he tapped Ian’s shoulder while calling out, “Gonna come,” in a warning. Removing his hand from his own cock and grasping Mickeys’ hips, he pulled him closer, silently giving permission. That was apparently all it took as Mickey swiftly came, shuddering and moaning softly. Feeling him come down his throat and tasting him nearly set Ian off as well. Pulling off, he leaned his head against Mickey’s pelvis. Their chemistry was decidedly **not** a fluke. Mickey combed his fingers through Ian’s hair a few times as his breathing settled. Then, as though he realized what he was doing, Ian felt Mickey stiffen pull his hands away.

Rolling his eyes to himself at the predictable nature of Mickey's reaction, Ian moved to his feet, not bothering to button his jeans but tucking himself back in his boxer briefs despite still being incredibly hard. He also grabbed Mickey’s jeans and pulled them back up those thighs and hips that made his mouth water and carefully tucked him back in his underwear. Mickey was back to looking everywhere except at Ian, arms awkwardly held out to his sides as though unsure where to place them. Being merciful and trying not to smile too widely at Mickey's dilemma, Ian grabbed both hands and softly pinned them next to his head as he bent down to kiss him. It was a calculated risk; some guys abhorred tasting themselves, and kissing after blowing him could gross Mickey out, but he had an inkling that wasn’t going to be the case.

As soon as their lips touched, Mickey was pressing up for a deeper kiss, and as his hands slid out beneath Ian’s, they went up to cup Ian around the face, tenderly petting his jaw and neck and pulling him closer. With that touch, Ian was officially gone. He was obliterated and enthralled and knew he would try to pursue this as far as it would go. He gradually pulled back and ended the kiss, grabbed Mickey’s hand, and led him into his room.

Looking back as they entered his room, he heard Mickey take a deep breath and blow it out. A bit of the haze and post orgasm endorphins had died down, and he could practically see him working to rebuild his defensive walls. His face was a bit tighter, and he casually pulled his hand away as though he hadn’t realized they were linked in that intimate way.

Moving back into his space, Ian attempted to touch his face and make eye contact, but Mickey flinched away and stepped back, “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just don’t need all this fairy shit.” Putting words to action, Mickey started stripping out of his shirt and jeans. “Let’s do this, Red.”

Ian felt himself squinting a bit at Mickey, trying to figure him out. Obviously, he was trying to move this back to something he was comfortable with, a physical exchange. Internally debating if he was okay with this route when he had just decided he wanted a lot more from Mickey. Trying not to huff out a laugh at himself, he wondered who he was kidding; he would take Mickey; however he could get him. Right now, Mickey was clearly still into having sex, but anything beyond that was off-limits. While he had been thinking through his path forward, Micky had stripped entirely and was now on his knees, center of the bed. He had snagged the lube from the bedside table and was putting it to use. Ian had flagged a bit but felt himself harden fully at a dizzying speed as he watched Mickey ruthlessly work two and then three fingers into himself in quick succession in preparation for getting fucked.

Acting quickly, Ian climbed into the bed behind Mickey, bracketing his spread thighs with his own, “Whoa. Hey, hey, slow down, I’ll do that.” Gently but firmly grasping his wrist, he removed Mickey's fingers from himself. Mickey naturally leaned forward onto his other arm as Ian pinned the wrist to his lower back.

“Then do it, Jesus Christ, fuckin’ takin’ forever.” It was interesting to Ian that he didn’t pull his wrist from Ian’s grasp but protested the minor delay. Ian didn’t think his comment was worth arguing over and instead just began using his other hand to finger him open. Mickey had been liberal with the lube, so there was enough to ease the slide of the two fingers he pushed in.

Mickey huffed out a breath, and it didn’t take long before he was rocking back and forth on those fingers as he was stretched. Ian didn’t draw it out like he wanted to, knowing Mickey was impatient and likely to get fidgety if there were too many delays. When he began feeling Mickey clench his hole, looking for more, he slipped in a third finger, and when Ian was satisfied Mickey was stretched enough, he pulled out completely. Moving the hand still pinned behind his back down to the bed and grabbing the other wrist, so now Mickey was on all fours, he enjoyed the slide of his shirt covered chest against Mickey’s bare back for a moment. Mickey took the opportunity to slide his back against Ian’s front and made no effort to move his wrists.

Ian swiftly moved off the bed to divest himself of his clothes, and then he was back. He snapped up the lube and a condom and finished his preparations with more lube to the condom once it was on. Mickey slid his thighs apart a bit more and arched his back as Ian grasped his hips and began entering him. Taking a deep breath, Ian tried not to blow his load immediately at the highly erotic sight displayed below him. Mickey wasn’t waiting around for Ian’s planned slow entry and moved back until he was fully seated, giving a soft grunt.

Not being able to see his face and knowing he could be a lot to take all at once, Ian checked in, “You good?”

“For fucks sake, move firecrotch!” Mickey was already leaning forward and then back, fucking himself on Ian’s cock. “Fuck me like you mean it.” There might have been more bite to his words if the last hadn’t been delivered with a groan.

Shaking his head a little, Ian decided to take him at his word and began fucking him in earnest. He wasn’t going to last long, watching Mickey shudder each time he slid across his prostate and seeing him take his cock over and over again. Leaning over for better leverage, Mickey slid until his upper body was flat on the bed and grasped the headboard's rungs tightly, pushing back into each thrust. Holy fuck, it was hot how much he seemed to let go and loved getting fucked. Ian ached to flip him over so he could see his facial expressions, but he knew Mickey would shut that shit down immediately. Reaching down to help jerk him off, one of Mickey's hands came down fast and batted his away, “I got it.” He said gruffly and proceeded to jerk himself. Moving his hand away, Ian just focused on riding the waves of pleasure that were quickly centering in his groin as he felt his orgasm approaching, and then Mickey came, and it was all over. Thrusting through the rhythmic pulses of Mickey’s hole clenching and emptying himself into the condom, Ian shook and panted. He felt like it was over too quickly, and yet he was satisfied on a primal level. He pulled out, dropped the condom in the bedside wastebasket, and slid to the side of Mickey.

He tried to catch his breath. Mickey was still face down on the bed but lying flat now, and Ian was facing up, their shoulders barely touched. Mickey's face was turned away, so Ian still couldn’t see his expression when he tried to focus on something other than the languid weight of his whole body. Reaching up to clumsily run his hand over Mickey's shoulder and back, he inquired with a simple, “Hey,” but he wasn’t even sure what else he would follow it up with.

Before he could get his brain online to have more of a conversation, Mickey was moving out of the bed and tugging on his pants. It was so unexpected that it put Ian off-kilter, and he tried to catch up. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah man, this has been fun, but I have an early morning, so gotta go.” And they were back to avoided eye contact.

“Oh” He was nonplussed, unsure what to say since this was typical of a hookup, but he’d really thought it would be like last time and he would stay the night. “Um, sure,” Calm deep breaths, “Yeah, Okay” and trying not to sound too needy, “Do you think I could see you again?”

Mickey was very intently focused on buttoning up his shirt, misaligned though it may be. Ian wanted to get up and fix it, but he felt like if he got too close right now, it would really make Mickey bolt. “I don’t think that’s a good idea” He had three buttons left and four holes; Ian was running out of time. “I don’t really do repeats.” That wasn’t exactly a no.

Okay, now Ian could feel his temper starting to flare a bit, “So what, I guess this was like a booty call?”

Oops, it was obviously the wrong response; suddenly, Mickey was making very intense eye contact, clearly angered by the comment. His fists were clenched, and he’d decided to stop trying to fix the buttons, “You found me, you asked me back here,” Pants were now buckled. He only broke eye contact to put on his boots, stamping each foot a few times to force on the heel without entirely undoing the laces, “I didn’t ask for any of this faggity shit. What do you think? We were boyfriend and girlfriend or something?” He was quickly moving out of the room, “Your nothing but a warm mouth to me.” Shouted over his shoulder as he exited the room.

“Don’t,” Ian said softly from the bed, but it was to an empty room, and he heard the front door close roughly. “Fuck.” Blowing out a breath, Ian flopped back on the bed. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Ian practically felt his emotions crash through the floor. After feeling so upbeat for the past several months, he knew he was in for a low period directly related to how the evening concluded. Hopefully, not too much of a low. Luckily tomorrow was Sunday; he could maybe sleep off the emotional hangover he knew was headed his way and regroup. He doubted his low would evaporate by Monday, but he was optimistic it would be minimal and not stick around for long.

Dragging himself out of bed to take his nighttime medication and brush his teeth, Ian tried to regain some of the euphoria he had felt earlier in the evening. It was how he should have felt after the most intense orgasm since the one he shared with Mickey several months ago. He couldn’t though. It was gone along with Mickey, and he felt a little cheated if he was honest. Staring at himself in the mirror, he realized, however, what wasn’t gone - his resolve. Something about Mickey pulled at him, deep in his chest. And maybe it was impulsive and pushy. And perhaps it was hopeless. Or maybe it was too complicated, and he should take the easier route. The safer route. The route that couldn’t possibly destabilize him. But fuck that. Something told him Mickey Milkovich was his. He just had to find a way to convince the skittish South Side (reformed?) thug of the same thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's an irresistible ginger with a persistence problem...You think Mickey can resist that?
> 
> Comments are love and I am also open to (gentle) feedback. 
> 
> Luluxa has created two beautiful companion art pieces for this chapter and you can find all of her work here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)
> 
> [Sweet Mickey Kisses](https://64.media.tumblr.com/6ef31998b2f79f68dbf8938bd5b3f4b2/a97bf0f699988eda-9d/s1280x1920/b058a2dc5b737cb58d947c849e3ba24fa2d750e9.jpg)  
> [Getting Down To Business](https://twitter.com/peppermintkatie/status/1347765293464965120/photo/3)  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey meets up with Terry (he's still an Asss Hole). He also hangs out with Yev. This is an angsty chapter but essentially smut free.
> 
> Warning for cannon typical slurs - relatively heavy this chapter because Terry. Also, we get into Mickey's head and it's chock a block full of negative self-talk. Reference to Mickey's rape and Yev being a result in this chapter, if that's going to be triggering for you or the themes in the story then be sure to take care of yourself and skip the story altogether and just enjoy the artwork!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. She did a fantastic job!  
> All mistakes are my own as I tweaked it after her review.
> 
> Companion artwork for the chapter by [Luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//) is linked in the end notes.
> 
> Let me know if you are interested in translating this for me into another language. Someone has offered to do a translation into Russian once it is complete but open to other languages.
> 
> FYI: I had some problems with formatting for some reason this week (likely user error) between Rich Text Format and HTML so hoping everything shows up ok but please let me know if anything looks wonky. I spent a LOT of time trying to figure out how to make text messages look cool but it exceeded my technical capabilities so I apologize in advance that it's simply broken up by a line and then name/timestamp.

He wiped his clammy palms on his jeans before grabbing and tugging open the door to Cael's Tap House; Mickey tried to take a full breath. He felt the pressure in his chest he hated. The bands restricting his airflow didn’t ease and hadn’t for hours. Not since he had gotten the text from Terry telling him where and when to meet. It was Wednesday afternoon, his shift had just ended at the warehouse, and now he was going to have a beer with his father when all he wanted to do was pick up Yev and go home. He tried not to scoff out loud at the concept of Terry being a father. Terry had been an abusive piece of shit his entire life; there was nothing “fatherly” about him. Mickey tried to limit his interactions with him, but the text message had been a non-negotiable summons.

It was better to meet up with Terry instead of leaving him to his own devices to track him down. He tried to keep Terry as far away from his little apartment, Svet and Yev, as possible. He may be a piece of shit parent too but he didn’t want Terry anywhere around Yev. He could handle Terry, could brush off his words and casual violence since he had a whole life of conditioning for it, but Yev didn’t. Svet had the conditioning, but she didn’t deserve it either.

So that’s how he found himself walking into the shadowy dive bar around the corner from where he grew up. A bar he had been in occasionally as a kid, searching for his father when absolutely necessary. Being a Milkovich kid meant you tried to need Terry as _little_ as possible, but his control had frequently been absolute. He also remembered as a teenager getting drunk in the bar; they weren’t big on checking IDs. Taking another breath that still wasn’t deep enough, Mickey reminded himself he wasn’t dependent on Terry anymore, not even for income. He wasn’t a little kid. He could make choices for himself. He, in fact, lived in his own place with his own kid and wife. Yeah, it was a shitty walk-up with a tiny floor plan that meant he slept on the couch and his marriage was just a fuckin’ piece of paper but those weren’t the crucial points. Neither was **how** all of that had been forced on him and Svet.

Mickey finally spotted Terry towards the back after giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and smoky interior. Terry already had a row of shots lined up and an empty pitcher of beer. It seemed he had started without him, which Mickey could only hope meant this would end sooner rather than later. Get in, find out what Terry wanted and get out. Go home. One more half breath before sitting down.

“Ay pops, how’s it going?” He downed the shot Terry slid over from his line up. Oh shit. It was rotgut Tequila, which never sat well with Terry. Made him more aggressive than usual.

“These fucking snooty bitches trying to increase the value of the neighborhood,” he stated as though they had been carrying on a conversation. He said the whole thing with disdain; it was clear this wasn't a new rant. “Come into **my** fuckin’ neighborhood, buying up properties, forcing the good citizens of Canaryville to find somewhere else to shelter.” Mickey had to consciously stop himself from rolling his eyes. The thought of a Milkovich being a good citizen was laughable on the best days. Terry took another shot, “Like I don’t know what those carpet munchers want!” Waving his hand a bit wildly at the bartender, “Eh, more beer!” As if that wasn’t clear enough, he obnoxiously clanged the empty plastic pitcher on the table.

Okay, he was obviously more than halfway to being drunk. These were always some of the most dangerous waters to navigate because Mickey wasn’t sure what would set him off and just how that could play out. Given he was sitting in Terry's direct line of sight and within arms reach meant he would _absolutely_ be the target if something went down. Staying too long would most certainly lead to an altercation, but leaving too early could as well. Even worse were the times where he got maudlin and emotional, missing Mickey's mom and parading out all the ways he was dealt a hard hand in life while never seeing where he had victimized others, Mickey included. He immediately rejected the label of victim for himself before he could really even thoroughly think it. Still, the oily slick feeling of shame that came with the label, when applied to himself, remained. Sometimes listening to Terry go on and on was more painful than when he just took a punch or two and moved on.

Mentally shaking himself, Mickey tried to stay present and alert. With Terry, paying attention to the ever-changing threat potential was the most critical way to limit the physical damage that was always a looming possibility. “Somebody bugging you about the house?”

“It's my goddamn house,” everything was said several decibels too loud. Mickey resisted the urge to look around and see if they were causing a scene.

“Sure it is, Pops. I know that.” A little more soothingly, “Been in the family for generations.” It’s what they had always been told. Never any real precise details about how they came to own it, and given what little Mickey knew about his shady and violent relatives and the history of Canaryville itself, he probably didn’t want to know. It had been a pride point his father had harped on when they were growing up. Mickey had made the mistake when he was nine of joking about the Milkoviche's getting it as part of a successful scam, and he had thought his dad would find the thought amusing. He’d had the fingerprint marks around his throat and bruised ribs for weeks after as a reminder not to make that type of comment again. He was lucky it had been winter, and he could cover it up easily with jackets and scarves when he left the house. Colin, Iggy and Mandy had given sympathetic looks when they saw it, but nobody offered comfort. They didn’t want to be the next target. Mickey couldn't begrudge them; in that house, it was every person for themselves.

“That’s fuckin’, right!” Terry pounded his fist on the table to emphasize his point, and it made Mickey jump and swallow. “And I am not letting some fruit loops come in and try to change the neighborhood.” He poured them each a pint from the newly delivered pitcher, and they both took a drink, but Terry picked right back up, “the fuckin’ polacks down the street sold their place.”

“Kowalski’s?” They had been in the neighborhood for at least two generations.

“Yeah. The chinks too.” Terry was all worked up, and he was nearly done with the pint he had poured.

“The Chins?” Terry nodded his head. Why he acted like he couldn’t remember their names when they had lived beside them literally his whole life was a mystery to Mickey. Or not really a mystery, Mickey knew his father was a racist fuck. Good for the Chins, hopefully getting out with a nice payday. Mrs. Chin had been the reason the Milkovich kids ate on more than one occasion. He got nearly nostalgic eating egg foo young, a cheap meal they would find on their doorstep sometimes when Terry was gone for an extended period on a run and they must have looked particularly desperate.

“Now, they're after me.” He downed another shot, “Trying to prey on me.” He finally took a breath and leaned back, lit a smoke. Smoking in bars had been banned more than a decade ago, but it was a testament to the bar's dive status that they didn’t worry about those kinds of regulations, and in fact, in a real fuck you move, had ashtrays sitting on the tables. Mickey decided to go with it and lit up as well while he continued to let Terry ramble, hoping he could piece together what was going on. “Rough time right now, ya know?”

Mickey just noncommittally acknowledged the statement. It was rough times for many reasons, but he suspected they would highlight different circumstances if asked. Trying to find legitimate work as an ex-con that paid a remotely livable wage was difficult. Living in a tiny apartment with no personal space was a challenge, although it was _infinitely_ better than being back at Terry’s. Having feelings for a ginger who had texted him each day since Sunday despite Mickey's lack of response was undoubtedly _complicated_. Mickey tried to shut that last train of thought down. He didn’t even want to think about Ian while dealing with Terry, didn’t want to sully those perfect moments. It would also make him less alert; more vulnerable.

Tuning back in, Terry was now rambling about taxes. “You miss a few years of taxes, and the government comes to try and steal your home.” He sloppily poured the last dregs of the pitcher of beer in his glass, “And those vultures are just circling, waiting to pick the bones.” Mickey was finally getting a sense of what had happened. “Couple of dykes making me an offer I can’t refuse” If it were anyone else, the exaggerated air quotes and accent would have been funny. With Terry, it was unsettling.

“Those dykes make an offer on the house?” That’s the closest he could piece together.

“No way in hell is some faggot ass bitch going to live in my house!” This was said with momentarily clear-eyed vehemence as he looked right at Mickey. He just nodded his head to that. What could he say? One faggot ass bitch had **already** lived in that house, but they all just tacitly agreed never to acknowledge it again. According to Terry, what was done was done. The faggot had all been fucked out of him by Svetlana. God, he wished that were true.

“I just gotta get the money, pay the bill, and get the cocksucking taxman off my back.” Down went the last shot. “They must have mistaken me for some gooddamn bootlicker.” Mickey was pretty sure nobody had ever thought that about Terry, not the government and not the people in the neighborhood.

Fuck. Terry was going to ask him to go on a run. This is how he’d gotten himself locked up before, getting busted for one of Terry’s drug runs. Terry hadn’t even bothered to show up at his arraignment because he was a good father like that. This could be a powder keg moment. Mickey swallowed the last of his lukewarm beer and waited for Terry to ask.

“I miss working with my boy.” And now Terry’s eyes were back to looking slightly rheumy, glassy from the liquor and who knows what else was in his system. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Terry didn’t look so impossibly big and scary. He had aged, and while Mickey didn’t doubt those knuckles with ASSS HOLE tatted on them could do some serious damage, he wasn’t quite as afraid as he had been when he was just a kid. Or when he was seventeen. It gave him a little bump of courage when Terry finished his thought, “Wanna go on a run with your old man?”

Make or break time, he had to play this just right. Tsking in feigned disappointment, “Man, would love to make some fast cash.” Shrug, “but gotta pass. Only six months away from getting off probation and trying to make a go of it.” Waving a dismissive hand, not sure if Terry would accept going straight as a reason to decline to go on a run, “What about Colin or Iggy?” Mickey tried redirecting the conversation, although he felt lousy about offering up his own siblings.

“Colins back in jail, awaiting sentencing on some drug charge and resisting arrest,“ although Mickey hadn’t heard about it, he wasn’t surprised. Colin was pretty placid until he was on coke, and he never took kindly to the cops. No Milkovich did. Colin and Mickey had been the primary enforcers of Terry’s little drug operation; when they were much younger people had underestimated Mickey because he was small, but people did the same to Colin because he appeared laid back. By the time they hit puberty, they had doled out enough beatdowns that they had built up a solid reputation. Although that was before the gentrification had really taken hold, the face of the neighborhood was changing, and he doubted the level of lawlessness that existed in Canaryville would last much longer. “And you know fuckin’ Iggy. Too goddamn high most of the time to be a good lookout.” That was true. Iggy spent much of his time high out of his mind on marijuana and occasionally other harder drugs. They all had their coping mechanisms.

“Wish I could Pops,” Just shrugging without going back over his reason for declining, he offered what he could, which wasn’t much, “I’ll see what we can scrape together, though. Help ya out, okay?” He didn’t know where he would squeeze money from, but it was better than going on a run with his dad. He wasn’t even convinced he could go on a run with Terry without having one of his stupid panic attacks. It was hard enough, sitting across the table from him.

Terry absently nodded his head as though considering whether to accept the offer or not, push more or not. Finally, he just sighed and slid out. Moving to stand beside where Mickey sat in the booth he looked down at him, “You’re a good boy, you know that?” And Mickey knew it was fucked. Knew he shouldn’t feel that warm glow he got on the incredibly rare occasion his father praised him. It made him a bit nauseous at the same time that he reveled in it, just a little. The irony was also not lost on him when he visibly flinched as Terry brought his hand up to tap him affectionately on the cheek, just a little too hard, making it sting.

And then he was gone. And Mickey could finally take a deep breath. Mostly.

The bartender, who had to know who Terry was as a regular, and how volatile he could be, stopped by to pick up the dirty glasses and pitcher and dropped off a fresh cold pint with an “On the house” comment and then was gone. Mickey was immensely grateful and took a long drink, letting the cold beer soothe his tight throat.

He sat for a minute and contemplated before giving in and sliding his phone out of his pocket. He tapped over to the contact profile Ian had created of himself in the Uber the previous Saturday evening. He stared at the selfie Ian had taken. It showed a quick, shy smile and hair looking as vibrant as ever. Just seeing his face had Mickey finally, finally, able to take a full deep breath. His shoulders dropped, and he could feel his face relax. He was maybe smiling a little bit.

Tapping over to the messenger app to see the messages he had received from Ian since leaving abruptly in the early Sunday morning hours. The first one had come later that afternoon.

* * *

**Ian (2:14 PM):** Hey Mickey – I know things ended a little weird last night, but I wanted to let you know I had a nice time. Hope to see you again.

* * *

Mickey, of course, hadn’t responded to that. Who reaches out after the way he left? The desperate or the psycho is who, obviously. That night Ian sent another text.

* * *

**Ian (9:47 PM):** Goodnight Mickey. 🙃

* * *

That wasn’t charming. That was stupid. He most certainly found it annoying. He absolutely did **not** smile. He also didn’t think about it late that night after everyone had gone to bed and he was lying on the couch by himself; getting hard. He felt the ache in his thighs when he pushed into the glorious bruises he had on each one from Ian biting him. He had checked them out before taking a shower earlier that day and had felt the trembling desire sliding below his skin. He had turned his face into his pillow so it could absorb any sound he made and the wetness sliding from his eyes as he stroked himself to completion.

The next day the barrage continued. And by barrage, he meant a morning greeting and an evening salutation.

* * *

**Ian (8:12 AM):** Good Morning Mickey. Hope the day isn’t too Monday for you. 😎  
 **Ian (9:18 PM):** Goodnight Mickey. 🙂

* * *

Same Tuesday.

* * *

**Ian (7:47 AM):** Good Morning Mickey. I am heading in for my shift. 🤞 Hoping for some excitement but not too much. 

* * *

Mickey didn’t respond, and he didn’t think about Ian while he was moving pallets of goods from one side of the warehouse to the other in preparation for stocking.

* * *

**I** **an (8:15 PM):** Heading to bed early tonight. Feeling tired. Hope you’re okay.

* * *

No emoji, and even in text, Ian sounded tired. Mickey _almost_ responded, almost asked if he was okay. He resisted because he could tell Ian was like quicksand. Any more contact and he was going to get sucked in even further than he was now. It made his hands shake just a little thinking about it, and he wasn’t sure if it was excitement or anxiety he felt, maybe a little bit of both.

And this morning he appeared to have bounced back. Four days of reaching out and persistence. Mickey could feel himself softening no matter how hard he tried to avoid that slippery slope.

* * *

**Ian (7:03 AM):** Early to bed and early to rise and all that…This is your morning greeting – Good Morning Mickey. 😊

* * *

He had pulled out cereal for Yev’s breakfast and had to bite his lip hard to keep the smile at bay that tried to creep across his face. This ginger was **so** dumb. Mickey couldn’t be that good of a lay, could he? Ian was certainly persistent. But, Mickey could be stubborn; he still didn’t respond.

As he read through the message thread again, he felt that warmth return. He didn’t know what Gallagher’s game was. A man like that could hook up with pretty much anyone he wanted, given his looks and confidence. Ian might have grown up in Canaryville, but he had a steady respectable job and could have his pick of North Side pricks without issue. Maybe he wanted to slum momentarily back to his roots, like eating comfort food? That made the most sense, and at least Mickey could understand that even while he felt a pang in his chest where the warmth had started to spread. This was just a convenient way to scratch an itch with someone who reminded him of where he came from. A connection like that could have no future and would burn itself out. Which is precisely what he wanted too, of course. It meant that…whatever this was, had a natural expiration. It meant he could have a little more time with the ginger, just until Ian got bored and moved on. He rationalized that he could keep it physical only, if he committed to that then he could engage. He decided to finally respond. 

* * *

**Mickey (5:12 PM):** Hey

* * *

His palms were clammy with sweat. The message stayed on _delivered_ for the minute or so as he stared at the screen. Realizing the time, Mickey shuffled out of the booth and pulled out enough bills to cover Terry’s drinks and headed out. He needed to get to Yev’s school to pick him up by 6 o’clock when the afterschool program he participated in shut down. Even if he didn’t care about disrespecting the women who ran the program by showing up late, it would stress Yev out. He always got anxious when he hadn’t arrived by 5:30, nervous something had happened and Mickey was going back to prison. Yev may have been more sheltered than Mickey ever had been, but he was still South Side. He had been exposed enough just by existing in the area, dealing with Mickeys' imprisonment and talking to other kids in his class to know that sometimes dads disappeared. Death, abandonment, prison, the list of ways a dad could fail his kid and be unexpectedly absent was long. Mickey thought Yev could probably sense on some level how much of a failure he was. He hoped the kid would turn out to be better than him, and fortunately, the bar was pretty low.

Although Mickey didn’t _want_ to go back to prison, he could also acknowledge the likelihood someone like him was gonna do another few stints was high. He was trying to go straight partially for the kid but also because he had really hated prison. He wasn’t actually sure he could make it through another round before just letting someone shiv him or taking care of it himself. He had no illusions he would be successful at being an honest man and it was just a matter of time before he fucked up. Any warm feelings that had started to spread at the thought of seeing Ian again turned ice cold at the hard reality that he was a fuck up.

Feeling his phone vibrate as he got on the El, he knew it was Ian responding to his text even without checking. Feeling the knowledge pressing down on him that his free time was most likely limited, his future was bleak, he decided to go for it. To enjoy what little time Ian would be interested in him, to take a little slice of something for himself before it all went to shit again. He could have the memories to hold onto, maybe even to replace some of the ones that haunted him still. He still thought Ian was quicksand but he would try to keep it on his terms.

***

Heart pounding and eyes flying open at the jostle, Mickey whipped his head towards what had woken him even as his fists tightened in preparation to fight. Seeing Yev’s wide eyes peeking at him from the floor where he had sat next to the couch made him stop short. He realized Yev had bumped the couch, which had startled him; he let out a sigh and slumped back. He pushed the blanket down to his waist to help cool himself as the prickling panic sweats continued. Sometimes his body was slow to catch up and realize there wasn’t a threat even when his brain was on board.

“Sorry, dad,” Yev said quietly, tentatively. It was better now, but a year and a half ago, it had been bad when he had accidentally woken him up, _**really** **bad**_. Mickey had only been out of prison for about a month, and up to that point, Yev had mostly avoided him. He had seemed unsure what to do with the person who was his dad, likely he didn’t remember much except seeing him in the orange jumpsuit behind security glass for the last few years.

Yev had accidentally bumped the couch just like he did today when Mickey was sleeping. Mickey had Yev pinned to the floor in seconds with his fist drawn back to punch him before he realized there was no actual threat _except himself_ to his own kid. He had scrambled up and away so fast he had tripped, fallen on his ass, gotten up, and locked himself in the bathroom. Mickey had proceeded to have one of his worst panic attacks, including nearly hyperventilating and passing out on the cracked linoleum floor. When that had passed, he had proceeded to dry heave in the toilet. All he could see was Yev’s big blue eyes looking up, terrified. A face that looked so much like his own that it blurred, and then it was his own face as a kid; superimposed over Yev’s, staring up at him. Bruised and bloody after Terry had gone after him. He had almost just become Terry to Yev.

Yev had gotten Svet, and it had taken her forty-five minutes to get Mickey to open the door. He was a complete mess and lacked parenting skills, but he was certain that he didn’t want to hit his own kid. He didn’t want his kid **afraid** of him.

Svet had been a rock throughout that incident and the many stumble steps since as he tried to find his way after the three years he spent in prison. He wasn’t the same person he was before prison in some ways. His body had gotten stronger since working out was the only way he could productively spend his time and it also meant he was at peak ability to defend himself. Inmates, like people in the neighborhood, had initially underestimated him because he was small and some had mistaken him for an easy target.

It had helped his reputation as well when he had occasionally carried out beatdowns at Svetlana’s direction; sometimes, people on the outside wanted to send a warning to someone on the inside and were willing to pay. That money had helped fund Svet and Yev's move out of Terry’s house about a year before Mickey was released. Mickey was smart about it and had always carried out his attacks in the cut, safe from security camera monitoring or guard meddling. He had injured enough for a warning but not enough to raise too much suspicion or require any heavy investigating, which is how he had avoided extra time being added to his sentence. In a twist of irony and overcrowding, he had gotten out early for good behavior instead of fulfilling the full five years of his original sentence. A year and a half later, he was still doing physical labor in the warehouse, so his body continued to be strong.

However, somehow getting out of prison, out of Terry’s house and around Yev had turned him into a pussy. His stupid panic attacks seemed to happen _way_ more frequently than they did when he was a kid. A little niggling thought reminded him that wasn’t really true. As a kid, a teen, and even in prison, he’d sometimes had a hard time controlling his shaking hands or breathing, would do his best to find a tiny space to wedge himself into where nobody could sneak up on him. He would force himself to be quiet, so nobody knew what was happening, whether that was Terry or later other inmates. So, yeah, it had happened, but he’d been able to keep it under wraps. Then he got released, and somehow all the layers of mental protection and walls he had developed throughout his life started to crack. Not only was it goddamn annoying and a little terrifying, it also made him antsy. It made him anxious about being anxious. It made him feel unpredictable, even to himself.

Mickey wasn’t sure if he would call what he had with Svet friendship, but it was something. They were undoubtedly bonded through the traumatic conception of Yev but even more so by her desire for Yev to have a father. Mickey figured that having **no** father would be leagues better than **him** as a father, but Svet was insistent that Mickey be in Yev’s life. Given what he knew about her father and childhood, it wasn’t surprising that she was extraordinarily protective of Yev. He had no question; she would smash every knuckle in both hands with her hammer if he dared to actually injure Yev. It was good. The knowledge that Svet would protect Yev even from Mickey helped him feel secure. He didn’t want to hurt Yev, but he felt like that would be a fitting punishment if he did. Somebody should protect that kid; he was soft in ways that made Mickey uncomfortable. Made him want to shield him from the harsh realities of their life and neighborhood.

After that incident a year and a half ago, when things calmed down, and Mickey could speak again, they had talked to Yev about not startling him awake. It was necessary, but he had felt like a complete asshole that he couldn’t handle his shit; even his kid knew it. Yev had been **_so_** careful since then, and there hadn’t been any incidents that bad again. Over time, as the small apartment felt safer, Mickey had stopped being quite as jumpy, which had helped.

“It's all good, kid.” Letting out another breath, he tried to smile a little. It felt so awkward, him trying to comfort Yev. What a joke. He didn’t know anything about being a caring parent, so he always felt like he was faking it.

Well, that at least got a smile, and Yev’s little shoulders relaxed like he wasn’t holding a tense position waiting for Mickey's reaction; he gave a tentative smile. Which made Mickey feel like a heel; he remembered what that was like. Waiting for your dad to go off. Never knowing what to expect.

“Want me to make you a pop tart?” His eyebrows went up in eager inquiry. It was times like this that Mickey had **no** question Yev was his son; his expressions were like looking in a mirror.

“Sure, that sounds good little dude.” In truth, it didn’t. His stomach was still sitting in his throat, but the kid was pretty proud of his ability to toast a pop tart without burning it, and it was so very obviously a peace offering after startling Mickey awake, so of course, he was going to be agreeable.

As expected, Yev gave an exasperated sigh, “I’m not little dad!” His indignation was cute like only an insistent seven-year-olds could be. This was typical teasing between them.

“Get used to it; your old man is shorter than most.” That got him an exaggerated eye roll as Yev trundled off to the galley kitchen. That kid was **not** on track to be taller than Mickey from what he could tell.

Getting up from the couch, Mickey went to take a piss and then stepped out on the fire escape to have his morning smoke. He sucked it down quicker than usual, but at least his hands were mostly steady by the time he crouched back through the window.

Then he methodically folded up his blankets. He did this each morning, the apartment was too small to have it be cluttered, and the routine helped ground him. Having grown up in squalor, Mickey appreciated the tidiness they all worked together to maintain. He tucked his pillow and blankets in the cubby hole where they belonged and then, annoyed with himself, went and retrieved the fleece blanket. He was off his game because he knew their routine by now.

Svet worked a double shift at the Alabi on Friday nights three times a month, so Saturday mornings had become Mickey and Yev’s time together to allow her to sleep in. It had developed organically, and now, if hard-pressed, Mickey would admit he actually looked forward to the time with Yev. It basically consisted of sitting on the couch with a blanket, watching a few cartoons, eating pop tarts or the sugary cereal Svet didn’t allow Yev to eat during the week, and playing a few rounds of Street Fighter on the old PlayStation from his teens. Sometimes Mickey had a hard time connecting with Yev, but these moments _almost_ came naturally after so many Saturdays spent that way.

The one Friday night Svet didn’t work a month was usually the night he went out if he was going to. Saturdays, when neither worked, it was a toss-up about who stayed with Yev, and sometimes it ended up being all three of them home watching movies. More often than not, on those evenings, Angie would come over too. It had been strange to realize sometime during his prison stint Svet and Angie had gotten closer and started some sort of casual dating or on-again, off-again relationship. Svet didn’t share their official status, and Mickey didn’t ask.

Luckily, despite all of them knowing, none of them spoke about the fact that Mickey used to fuck Angie, everyone fucked Angie, but he’s pretty sure the others could actually perform. Angie was kind enough not to mock how pathetic those sexual encounters had obviously been. Topping from behind, half-hard, and unwilling to touch her boobs, it had been unsatisfying and embarrassing every time. The person probably **_least_** surprised to find out which way Mickey swung had to be Angie Zhago.

Smelling the sweet scent of warm sugar, Mickey joined Yev in the kitchen as he pulled down two plates on his own and put one set of pop tarts on a plate, and then popped down a second set. Mickey started the coffee, which he knew he was absolutely going to need this morning. “Good job, bud,” he praised Yev on toasting the pop tart perfectly. It was ridiculous to reward effectively toasting a pop tart but Yev was practically glowing with pride in his accomplishment. Yeah, maybe Mickey had spent a number of breaks and lunches smoking and googling on his phone for parenting tips. He was never going to be the father of the year, but he could at least try to be better than the fathers he and Svet had.

Once the first cup was ready, he took it over to the couch where Yev had already brought their plates and was under the blanket. He had the two plates sitting beside him, opposite where Mickey would sit. The kid had Netflix up and searched out the first in the line up he watched each Saturday. Mickey still struggled to navigate the prompt screens sometimes, but Yev whipped through it like a pro. He sat on the couch next to Yev, propping his feet up on the coffee table and sharing the blanket. Yev clicked play and then handed him his plate of two strawberry pop tarts with a distracted smile. He was now fully engrossed in the antics of some Scooby-Doo remake while eating his own breakfast. Mickey sipped his coffee and had a few bites, but his stomach was being twitchy, so he let the plate sit on his lap with the breakfast pastry, mostly untouched.

Leaning forward to snag his phone off the coffee table, he checked his messages. Seeing the notification that he had two messages wasn’t surprising, but he still felt the shot of adrenaline. Ian had faithfully texted each morning and night, and Mickey had started responding midweek, but he had kept it low key. Sometimes Ian responded back to him, but it never went beyond a general greeting and updates. And if Mickey checked his phone several times each morning and evening to make sure he didn’t miss getting the message that was his business.

* * *

**Ian (8:17 AM):** Morning Mickey – Happy Saturday! 🙂  
 **Ian (8:23 AM):** Not sure if you are free, but if you are - do you want to come over tonight?

* * *

Sent almost twenty minutes ago. He looked over at Yev to make sure he was still occupied, which he was and Mickey evaluated his options. He was pretty confident there wouldn’t be an issue with him being absent tonight. He’d check with Svet, but he assumed Angie was coming over. If he was gone this evening, including last weekend, that would make two Saturdays he was out in a row. It would be unusual but he’d figure out something to say when he checked with Svet.

* * *

**Mickey (8:46 AM):** Sure - Time?

* * *

The response came almost immediately.

* * *

**Ian (8:47 AM):** Let's do 7. I’ll make dinner.

* * *

Well, shit. That was awfully sneaky. Mickey hadn’t planned on dinner, but he considered it and reminded himself they had shared a meal last time as well. It wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t need to be a big deal; maybe he would set some boundaries over dinner about what this could look like if they were going to do this semi-regularly.

* * *

**Mickey (8:51 AM):** Sure

* * *

Setting aside his phone, he tuned back into the second cartoon Yev had switched over to. This would fulfill what Yev considered his required shows on Saturday morning, and he would decide if he wanted to watch one of his less favorite shows or switch to PlayStation. He always took the decision **very** seriously. Picking his pop tart back up, Mickey ate a few bites and washed it down with cold coffee while he listened to Yev laugh at whatever juvenile joke was playing on the tv. These mornings with Yev were another set of memories he would try to hold onto when he was sent away to do another bid.

The specter of Terry and his drunken ramblings about his dilemma were stuck in the back of his mind. Terry had accepted his decline, something that still surprised Mickey, but a desperate Terry was erratic and even more volatile than usual. He had told Svet about his conversation with Terry when he returned on Wednesday evening. Svet's first solution had involved her trusty hammer, but since Yev needed his mom around, that was quickly eliminated. They both agreed it was best to keep Terry at arm's length. They had a little money set aside and would try to scrape together more just to limit exposure to Terry. 

Much like Terry expected all the boys growing up to be part of the family business, he also expected them to assist in keeping the family home. Tax time was always extra sketchy around the Milkovich house as they all scraped together. It mostly looked like bare cupboards and extra runs with no earnings. It was laughable on so many levels. Mickey would **never** see that house as a home, and they hadn't really been much of a family. Sighing over the clusterfuck of a situation, Mickey got up and refreshed his cup of coffee.

Yev was switching the inputs when he returned and setting them up for playing Street Fighter. Apparently, the decision hadn’t been that hard today. Yev stood up as Mickey sat to carefully insert the precious disc into the console. For technology, the PS3 was old as dirt. Mickey had stolen it from a North Side home he broke into with Iggy ages ago. That had been nearly disastrous; Iggy really was a terrible lookout. They only had a few discs that still worked, but the only one that really mattered, according to Yev, was Street Fighter.

They each selected their character profiles: _Ken_ for Yev and _Ryu_ for Mickey. The game launched, and they were in it, fighting each other for victory. It was pretty evenly matched until Mickey finally saw his opening and with a combo kick _Ryu_ took down _Ken_. Letting out a little yelp of excitement, Mickey immediately clapped a hand over his mouth and tried to quiet down to avoid waking up Svet. Beside him, Yev cracked up laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

Leaving their characters swaying as they prepared to go another round, Yev turned to him on the couch. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?” Mickey turned his head to watch as Yev thought about what he was going to ask. Whatever his question was, he seemed to be thinking about it pretty hard.

“In school, we are talking about what we want to be when we grow up.” Nodding along because that made sense, Mickey waited for him to say more, “And I'm not sure if I want to be a cop or a fireman yet.” Mickey suspected those were the most common options little boys considered.

Snorting a bit about how serious Yev was, Mickey reminded him, “Well, good thing you don’t have to decide that yet. You got plenty of time.” It was a near thing but he didn’t launch into a rant about the police and why that shouldn’t even be a career he considered. Fuck the police.

With a nod, Yev seemed to accept that. Then tilting his head to the side, he asked, “What did you want to be when you grew up?” And holy shit, for some reason, Mickey had not been prepared for that.

“Um, well, I dunno, little man.” The fact that Yev didn’t protest the use of the term little meant he was intent on this subject, and Mickey wasn’t likely to squirm out without giving him a satisfactory answer.

“But, like, didn’t your teachers ask you about it when you were in school?” His innocence was almost painful, but it gave Mickey hope that maybe Yev could escape the Milkovich curse of being nothing more than drug dealers, pimps, and petty thieves.

Mickey did remember when this topic came up when he was around Yev’s age. His teacher, Mrs. Masterson, who was as old as a dinosaur and had Colin and Iggy in her class previously, had just scoffed and skipped over him. It didn’t go unnoticed by the other kids, and when that little prick Todd teased him on the playground about Milkoviches being losers, he’d smashed his face into the concrete three times after busting his nose. People had to know not to fuck with a Milkovich. The school had called home because Mickey was suspended and Terry had practically walked on air to come to deal with the situation, one of the few times he’d been gloating with pride at something Mickey had accomplished.

“I’m sure they asked; I just don’t remember what I said.” No reason to share the details about why Todd avoided Mickey like the plague after that.

“Well, think back. I'm sure you must have wanted to do something.” Yev scrunched up his brow as though he was trying to remember on behalf of Mickey. It was clear that all of these were prompt questions from the teacher, “Like when you were thinking of being an adult, what did you see yourself doing?”

“A Barber.” What. The. Fuck. He wasn’t even sure where that came from, and he certainly hadn’t meant to say it. He couldn't remember what he wanted to be when he was Yev's age but later, in his teens, he'd briefly thought he had options if he could just buckle down and get some good grades. He remembered spending hours thinking about how he could make it a reality, even now it made him shiver a little at the glimmer of possibility he had felt then. He had known it was a slim possibility and eventually he'd had to acknowledge it was certainly out of reach. The desire wasn't something he had ever shared with anyone. 

“A barber?” Yev’s face got even more confused; he didn’t seem to know what that was.

Feeling his face flame in embarrassment, Mickey cleared his throat and tried to clarify, “Uh yeah. A barber is a person who cuts men's hair.” God, he sounded so idiotic.

Yev seemed to think about that for a bit, seeming stumped but then shrugged, “Well, why didn’t you?”

“Life just didn’t work out that way for me.” He knew it was a platitude, but he couldn’t possibly go into how the system had failed him, and he had failed to make sound _legal_ choices.

“Do you think the same is going to happen to me?” Jeeze with the twenty questions. The kid was killing him.

“No, I don’t think so; I think you can be whatever you want to be.” He sounded like an afterschool special. “You gotta stay in school, though, and get good grades.” Yev nodded solemnly.

And just as quickly as it had started, he was over it. Yev settled back to look at the screen, picked up his controller, and launched the next round.

Svet came milling out of her room an hour or so later in women's boxer shorts and a purple tank top. She grabbed herself a cup of coffee and took up the seat on the other side of the couch next to Yev. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the side of his head, but he was too intent on kicking Mickey’s ass in the game to even try to duck away. And just a minute later, that round ended with Mickey’s defeat. Yev hopped up to dance around, gloating over his astonishing accomplishment, causing both Mickey and Svet to laugh.

Clearing his throat, Mickey glanced over at Svet. “So uh, you good if I head out tonight?”

Eyebrow raised, Svet looked at him. “Is fine.” Her English had gotten progressively better, but she still had a heavy accent. “You have something planned?”

It was a fair question; even when he did his hookups, he usually let her know a few days ahead of time he would be out for the evening if they needed to adjust anything to make sure one of them was with Yev. He didn’t go out all that often. The first weekend he had hooked up with Ian several months ago it had been two evenings in a row since he had failed to accomplish his goal of getting fucked the first night. If he went to see Ian tonight, it would be a second Saturday directly after having been out last Saturday. Svet was smart, she was likely connecting the dots in some way. He really hadn’t planned to tell Svet much, but he knew that he would have to disclose something more if things continued. They lived together and were married but had mostly independent lives except where Yev was concerned.

“Uh, yeah. Gotta take care of some stuff.” He wasn’t sure why he was weird about this. She knew about him even if they didn’t talk about it. It’s not like she could judge anyways given whatever was going on with her and Angie. He just. He just _**couldn’t**_. He didn’t want to unpack talking with **her** about any of this even if right now, they were solid. It hadn’t always been that way. However, they had been good even before he went to prison. Once she lived in the Milkovich home, it became clear to her how toxic the family relationship was. They had formed a tentative alliance. Although it wasn’t as visceral as his desire to protect Yev, Micky felt protective of her too. That day had been traumatic for her as well.

“You ready, dad?” Saved by the kid as he launched into another round. He could almost guarantee Yev was going to win this one because Mickey was only partially paying attention as he tried to decide if he should say more to Svet or not.

Then the moment ended as she got up.

She walked behind the couch, stopped, and gently but firmly squeezed Mickey's shoulder. It was a warm gesture that felt a whole lot like acceptance. If his eyes got a little wet, that was okay; nobody was the wiser. He just blinked hard and kept playing the video game with his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian's getting beneath his skin....Is anyone surprised? 
> 
> Comments are love and I am also open to (gentle) feedback. 
> 
> Luluxa has created a beautiful companion art pieces for this chapter and you can find all of her work here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)
> 
> [Cartoons and Games](https://64.media.tumblr.com/949fb825abf5c08e3398ecd8c62b0c1e/9d7fa1241dbead54-b6/s1280x1920/4890f1f9bc5e45dc8ecfc3bf014662b178d4cca1.jpg)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get pretty deep into Ian's headspace this chapter and why he was susceptible to the grooming we see him experience as a teen. We also have a cannon typical skirmish between Ian and Mickey although I don't think it's overly graphic. Ian has negative thoughts about his body and how it's changed. 
> 
> Take care of yourself and if any of these topics are triggering I don't suggest you read it and just enjoy the artwork instead. 
> 
> This is pretty long, but not as long as chapter 5!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. She did a fantastic job!  
> All mistakes are my own as I tweaked it after her review.
> 
> Companion artwork for the chapter by [Luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//) will be linked in the end notes.
> 
> FYI - Bonus art piece has now been added!

Standing outside and looking up at the dilapidated exterior of his childhood home on North Wallace, Ian took a moment to gather himself while taking a series of three meditative breaths. Deep breath in, hold it for a count of three and then exhale for a count of seven. He could do this; he could pull his emotions out of the gutter and act like a _normal_ , happy, and cheerful brother for Liam's sake. He knew he was being dramatic. He was having a bit of a low, but he wasn't dealing with a major depressive episode. Buried somewhere in the muck and mire that were his emotions was gratefulness that this wasn't **that** bad. He was out of bed; he had been working this week; it just all felt like a slog. He really just wanted to be home in bed, cozied up in his comforter thinking about Mickey. Waiting until a reasonable time to text him his goodnight message. He hoped he wasn't being too crazy. He knew sometimes he was too much, and if he ever wasn't sure, he had his family to remind him.

About the only thing that would have him away from his apartment after work on a Thursday night when he felt the way he did was his littlest brothers' birthday. Twelve wasn't a signature birthday, but it was an excuse to throw a party and, if nothing else, Gallagher's knew how to party. If only Ian were up for it. One more deep breath and he made his way up the stairs, plastered on a big smile, and opened the front door. He was greeted by controlled chaos. It was the middle of the week, and school was back in session, so nobody was going all that hard, just a low-key family affair, which of course included Kev and V. The living room had some balloons and the same tired decorations that were pulled out multiple times a year for every birthday celebration. Carl and Liam were on the couch playing Halo on the Xbox 360 and too occupied with their mission to give more than a half-assed greeting.

Walking behind the couch and into the kitchen, he couldn't help the affection he felt seeping into him, despite his overall grumpiness, at seeing the family sprawled out hanging together. So many childhood memories, good and bad, happened around that dining table. Fiona had an iced three-tiered cake on the butcher block. She was obviously trying, unsuccessfully, to put additional decorative rosettes on top using the piping bag in her hand. She had more icing on her fingers, and the _outside_ of the bag than it looked like was still in it. Cake decorating had been a hobby she picked up when she quit drinking, but she really needed to find something else. Everyone praised her efforts, but it was similar to when adults said the macaroni art their kid made was unique and special. Seeing Ian come in, she immediately stopped, gave a little squeal, and went in for a huge hug, trying to keep her frosting-covered hands to herself and not get it all over his shirt.

Giving Fiona a hug felt good. Ian had been preoccupied for the last few months, and although he hadn't been entirely absent, he also hadn't been by for dinner or to drop in and chat very often. Something about coming home felt mostly comforting these days, and he captured that thought for later examination. He needed to work through the latent anxiety he still associated with being back here because he shouldn't stay away so much; it was good to be home. After Fiona came Lip for a brotherly hug and pat on the back. "How ya doing, man?" was exchanged between them, and they both just did a head nod. It said a lot and not enough. Ian was sure they would catch up in the backyard van at some point tonight. Lip knew something was going on because he was an intuitive older brother who had been up in Ian's business his whole life. Ian had already accepted that he would probably tell Lip some of what was going on; he just wasn't sure how much. He wasn't sure there was much to tell yet besides his own ruminations and anxiety. Maybe it wasn't only Ian that was pushy, but Gallagher's in general.

Kev and V were swirling around, getting the table set and pulling extra chairs from the porch. V was next for a hug and a "Long time no see," while Kev just clapped his shoulder and said, "Missed ya, man." No matter how tall Ian was, it still seemed like Kev towered over him, and it was strangely comforting, familiar. 

He could still feel his emotions bumping along the bottom of his normal range, but there was no question he was getting a gentle boost just from being around people who loved him, who knew all of his flaws, and still gave a shit. Of course, they were also the annoying fuckers who mettled relentlessly when they were worried about him and thought he was making poor choices. He hadn't been at the house much, but he had stayed in contact, had responded to text messages, if for no other reason than to keep everyone from chasing him down. Something he knew from past experience they would **absolutely** do.

"Fuck it," Fiona said as she moved to the sink to clean up. The resulting cake was the saddest fucking thing Ian had ever seen, possibly her worst work. Two floppy and strung out roses? Something else that was maybe supposed to be a bat or a dark moon? He had no idea. _Happy Birthday Liam_ was nearly illegible and definitely not centered. With Fiona's back to them, Ian looked up and, with raised brows, made eyes at everyone else who could see the horror that was now the cake. They all had similar grimaces that quickly transformed to smiles when Fiona turned back around with clean hands. She wasn't fooled. "Shut up; I know it's bad." And with that, what little tension there was broke, and everyone laughed.

The table was set, and the buckets of chicken and fried Shrimp, obviously from Carl's work, were sitting in the middle with tons of containers of sides. It was going to be a tight fit, but they were used to it. "Yo, Dinner!" Lip yelled, and Liam and Carl didn't need to be told twice as they roughhoused their way into the kitchen, trying to get to the table first. Liam was kinda scrawny, so it wasn't really a fair contest. The polite thing to do would have been to let Liam win on his birthday, but it wasn't the brotherly way, and it certainly wasn't Carl's way who hip-checked him halfway across the room and snagged the second to last seat at the table. Rolling her eyes, Fiona, who was about to sit at the last chair pulled up to the table, went and got the folding chair stowed between the washer and dryer. Kev had been in charge of chairs, and they were one short. They all scrunched even closer to make room for the birthday boy.

It took minimal prodding of Liam over his birthday dinner to get him to spill what he was up to in school, or more importantly, after school to make money. It sounded like he was getting straight A's while running some semi-legit side business filming himself playing video games and giving witty commentary on the system set up in his room. It was complete with advertisers and people potentially willing to endorse him. He huffed in annoyance when everyone jumped in to confirm he wasn't taking his clothes off and was emphatic that there was nothing sexual about what he was doing. He seemed frankly offended by the implication that he would engage in creating that type of online content. Which had kicked off a whole diatribe by Debbie about not being a SWERF. Debbie had enough steam on the topic to carry through eating the delicious but god-awfully decorated cake. When her rant finally wound down, even Kev was clear why it wasn't okay to be a Sex Worker Exclusionary Radical Feminist. Some things never changed.

Ian made a note on his phone to check out Liam's Twitch account to do a brotherly check on the accuracy of the picture he was painting on his little enterprise. Liam might be the one Gallagher who operated entirely within the law his whole life. Or he would be the ringleader of some elaborate white-collar crime later in life. It was too early to tell. Sitting back and pushing the food around on his plate, Ian just listened to the cross banter. Debbie, getting worked up over what she considered a lack of basic understanding and knowledge by her siblings on women's issues and equality, was always funny to everyone except her. Being one of the slew of middle children meant he knew how to blend into the background. While sometimes it had meant he felt left out at other times, like now, it was nice to just feel like a fly on the wall without pressure to participate.

***

Ian sat in the driver's seat of the defunct red van permanently parked in the house's side yard and lit up a cigarette. It had always been his sanctuary as a kid, except when Frank was using it as a place to sleep. The evening was about the perfect balance between warm while still having the occasional cool breeze. Soon temperatures would drop, and sitting out there would require more bundling up than a medium weight jacket. Pulling out his phone and scrolling back through the messages from the week, he felt a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had nearly dropped his phone in surprise when he finally got a response from Mickey yesterday, literally bobbled it and had to recapture it before it hit the floor. He had been grateful he was the only one in the locker room when it happened. 

There wasn't much to scroll through to look at the full dialogue. It was apparent to Ian that Mickey was easily spooked and out of his depth. Not that Ian had a lot of healthy relationship experience under his belt unless you considered sucking off geriatric viagroids as an underage teen a quality foundation. He had dated a few people for short periods, but nobody he had been invested in enough to formally introduce to the family. Despite the brief exposure to Mickey, Ian felt differently about him; he wanted that with him. He couldn't really explain this sixth sense he felt, but it had settled deep into his bones that there was a Mickey-shaped hole in his life.

To say Mickey was circumspect in his texting was being generous. Sunday, Ian had rolled over in bed in the early afternoon, waking sluggishly for a second time and recalling the previous evening's disastrous end. His alarm was set on repeat to make sure he took his morning meds on time, which he had done. Waking up for real, he had let himself wallow for a few minutes before dragging himself up out of bed to make coffee. Scowling at the coffeemaker that seemed extra slow that day, Ian had impatiently poured himself a cup when the pot was only a quarter brewed. He’d taken his cup of extra strong coffee and threw himself down on the couch, annoyed when hot coffee had sloshed onto his hand and barely resisting the urge to call it quits and just go back to bed. 

Ian had tried to decide how far he would go to chase Mickey. He had already spent energy to track him down, and although it had ended painfully, everything until the abrupt departure had fulfilled him. Looking across the table over burgers somehow shared emotional space with the incredible chemistry they clearly had. He ached for more. Growing up gay in the South Side, their shared roots, made Ian feel like maybe he understood a little bit about why Mickey had freaked out. He didn't want to overlook it, but he also didn't want it to stop him. Not that Ian had ever been good about backing off from things he wanted, even when it would be better for him if he did. 

So he had settled on the most passive prodding he could and really his only option, which was texting. His brain had been a tad foggy, but he had agonized about what to say in that first text. How to reach out in an unassuming way that also made his intentions clear. He resolved only to text mornings and evenings; to keep it brief had been his own self-imposed rule. He didn't want to veer further into being a creepy stalker than he already had, and it helped keep his own emotional investment in check, sorta. He had made a pact with himself; he would give it a solid week, and if Mickey didn't respond, he would have to let him go. 

But he **had** responded. Getting that text, Ian had been beside himself, had to employ a massive amount of restraint to continue limiting his texting. The fog he was operating in had cleared slightly as he felt a distant hope rise to the surface. The next milestone was to get more in-person time with him. 

Ian was broken from his musings about making arrangements to see Mickey again when the passenger door opened, and Lip hopped into the seat, cigarette already lit. He rolled down the window on his side to allow the smoke to dissipate and the light breeze to flow through the van. 

"That cake, man," he led with while taking a deep drag, "Looked like hell but tasted good."

He wasn't wrong; the cake itself had been good even though Ian hadn't eaten much of it. Snickering, "She's been working on decorating cakes for a few years now, and she's still terrible." Lip nodded his head in agreement and laughed too. Ragging on their oldest sister was a fun little pass time.

"Yeah, I told her to pick up knitting or something, but she seems to think she just needs more practice," Drag down to the filter. Lip stubbed it out while exhaling and shaking his head, "We could eat cake every day for the rest of our lives, and it wouldn't be a sufficient opportunity for her to improve enough."

"No shit," He took the last drag of his own smoke and stubbed it out too, "If she can't tell after that cake, then it's a lost cause." They both smiled at each other over their shared exasperation and then back out the window. Ian couldn't help but reflect on how many significant conversations he'd had with Lip in this van over the years, including awkwardly trying to answer Lip's idiotic assertions about gay sex when he discovered Ian's wank material. That had been embarrassing, but they had made it through and still shared a strong bond, although the older they had gotten, the less time they spent just hanging out like this as they went their separate ways. It made moments like this even more important. 

Lip pulled out the joint he'd had tucked behind his ear; being sober from alcohol didn't mean that Lip was clean. He smoked marijuana on the regular, and Ian was reasonably sure he occasionally did bumps of coke given the right circumstances and availability. A little part of Ian was jealous; he would never have that kind of freedom if he wanted to live a stable life. He rarely drank alcohol, and when he did, it was maybe half a beer, might have a few puffs off of a joint, and that was about the level of his tolerance, and even that had the potential to throw him off. Lip took the first puff and then passed it; Ian decided to take the risk.

"You doin', okay?" Lip asked as he accepted the joint back, and Ian held the smoke in his lungs for a bit and then let it exhale. Getting older meant the quality of weed Lip could afford or trade for was better than the booty trash they had smoked in their teens. Ian could feel his limbs go a little floaty.

Settling back in the seat, he waved a dismissive hand, "Lot going on." He still wasn't sure what level of information about the whole Mickey situation he wanted to reveal.

"Something goin' on?" and now Lip had shifted a little, clued in there may be something salacious to discuss. He was such an old woman about wanting the gossip, but for the most part, he had always been good about holding Ian's confidences. 

"It's kind of hard to explain." Ian knew he needed to stop being cagey and either pony up some details or shut it down. Playing this middle ground always made Lip suspicious, and the pressure would be on.

"Try me," Lip took another puff of the joint, but Ian waved it away when he offered. More weed and the risk of sending himself into a tailspin would increase; he really didn't need that.

Twisting his lips, he contemplated what to say and decided to share a vague version of the details. Maybe Lip would have good advice. Who else was he going to talk to about this? Taking a deep breath, "Met up with this guy a few times; I want it to be more. Not sure what he wants."

"Have you thought about asking him?" Lip just looked at him like he didn't understand why that would be hard. Sometimes he was so oblivious.

"I'm trying to but haven't had a chance." Ian could feel himself getting a little defensive, chin jetting out. He was reminded why talking to Lip could be annoying.

"So let me get this straight," The snicker that came with that lame pun made Ian literally roll his eyes. That joke apparently **never** got old. 

Before he could continue, Ian broke in. "You know what's not funny." Scowling at Lip, "You. Ever."

Lip waved that away, undeterred by Ian's pissy attitude. "You've thrown it in this dude a few times but haven't talked?" Lip was looking for confirmation that he had gotten it right. Judgmental asshole, it wasn't like he only had deep, meaningful sex. He was notorious for no strings sex that somehow the women always seemed to think meant more. It had led to some truly spectacular scenes when the women clued in. 

God, he hated to admit it, but it sounded so stupid when Lip was saying it. "See, I knew you wouldn't understand." Ian was regretting his decision.

"So explain it to me, Ian." Lip had shifted to being serious and was now listening for more.

"Look, he's South Side, right? But not from a family like ours." Rubbing a hand over his face, he had to force himself to stop before getting lost in the sensation, something he sometimes did when he was high. "Pretty sure he's deeply closeted, and I don't think he's ever done more than hooking up on the down-low."

Lip just hummed, acknowledging he heard without asking questions. It was a dirty trick he knew would make Ian talk more.

"I think he's had a pretty shitty life" Lip tipped his head in understanding; it wasn't an original story around here, "He spent some time in prison, super skittish." Taking a deep breath and puffing it out, "but I want to be with him. See if there can be something more." He knew he sounded a little pathetic, but he couldn't help it, "I have spent so much time focusing on being stable, I haven't felt this kind of connection with anyone. It's the first time I’ve felt anything like this since…ya know." Ian trailed off because he didn't have to spell it out for Lip; he had been there every step of the way to witness the difficulty in getting the right drug cocktail that didn't make Ian nearly comatose. 

Neither of them directly mentioned the time he had intentionally put his hand on a hot griddle in a quest just to feel something. Some things didn't need to be rehashed. "Yeah, I know you have. You’ve done real good too. You tried to get stable, and you did it. That's more than Monica did." He knew Lip was trying to be encouraging, but the comparison to Monica was a sore spot. It made him uncomfortable how much his mom's actions resonated with him, how thankful he was to be medicated and able to make informed choices. Still, he simultaneously missed the rush of mania. Those couple of times they had road-tripped together had been some of his wildest manic adventures with a certain amount of thrilling fun. But if he went there and thought about it, he would remember details better left forgotten. Feel the shame curl in his stomach when he thought about the things he had done in trade for food, a ride, or drugs. 

"I just worry about your mental health, man." The weight of Lip and Fiona, and the rest of the family always watching and worrying about him started to feel oppressive. He was reminded that **_this_** was why he didn't return to the house sometimes. "You’ve turned your life around, and I don't want some South Side piece of trash setting a match to it. Ruin all the work you've done, ya know?" And then he was sure Lip ended his little speech with something that would deliberately hit his buttons, "He doesn't sound like much of a prize to me." Casual shrug. 

And now Ian's temper and frustration were fully kicked off as he crossed his arms and felt his chin jut out even further. Lip could do this to him so easily, and even when he knew it was happening, Ian felt helpless not to respond. He knew he was defensive because it pushed on his soft spots, core insecurities he harbored. "And what fucking prize, am I? I have a broken brain; I could go off the deep end at any moment and steal a kid or start a cult or have a group of guys run a train on me." This week, he had worked _so hard_ to stay present, not give space to relive the litany of poor choices he had made. But they had just been waiting in the wings, looking for an opportunity to spring forward given half a chance, "And if I am not doing that, I could turn into a useless flesh sack. Just laying on a bed barely able to get up to piss." Breathing hard, he could feel tears prickle his eyes. "These fucking meds that make me more _normal_ and _stable,_ " strong emphasis on the terms that were meant to be positive, "Also make me fat; turn me into a zombie after taking my evening dose and cockblock me half the time with a limp dick and that's when it's good." Winding down his rant, he knew he was at risk of the tears falling if he didn't pull it together, "So don't tell me how someone isn't a prize; I will be goddamn lucky for Mickey to even be interested in dealing with any of my bullshit for any length of time."

"You aren't fat." Leave it to Lip to lock in on the one insecurity they both knew was more in his head than reality. 

"Ugh, I don't want to have this conversation with you again." This was tired terrain, "I am twenty-two pounds heavier than when I went on the medication, and it's only that little because I work out like a fiend." In fact, he had a propensity to overdo it if he didn't stick to his regiment. He typically forced himself to comply with his own schedule and mileage to avoid running until he puked and became susceptible to injury. He allowed himself more time with the weights when he needed something more, but he had to be careful even with that. It wasn't hard to slip into an obsessive headspace around working out. Sometimes it felt suffocating how much he had to regulate himself on nearly every front.

"Mostly, that's muscle and natural development because you aren't a skinny teen anymore. Just because you don't have old, sick fucks trying to get in your pants doesn't mean you’re fat." Ian knew two things to be accurate; his stomach had a layer of softness around it that he didn't seem to be able to get rid of no matter how many crunches he did, and old men still panted after him if he put even a little effort into it. He didn't want that any longer, really hadn't for a long while. It didn't mean he didn't appreciate the attention he sometimes got, even if he didn't encourage it. 

Before he could argue further with Lip, his face changed with sudden alarm, "Did you say Mickey?" Eyebrows pulled together, "Are you fucking Mickey Milkovich?" Ian was reasonably sure he hadn’t ever heard Lip's voice go that high.

Fuck. He hadn't meant to reveal **who** he was talking about, although he was a bit surprised Lip seemed to know precisely who Mickey was. Mickey had dropped out sometime in high school, and Lip had always kept mostly to himself except when it came to fucking his female classmates. He thought about denying it but didn't figure that would actually work.

"Had the hot goth sister, Mandy, right?" Of course, Lip remembered Mandy. 

Rolling his eyes, Ian just nodded. "How do you know Mickey Milkovich?" He was now more than a little curious. 

"Holy shit." Pausing, "He's gay?" Lip sounded totally scandalized and like his extra smart brain was operating in molasses. Ian didn't dignify that with a response. Finally, when Lip's brain caught up, he cleared his throat and clarified, "I wrote some papers for him a few times before he dropped out." He stubbed out the joint as he thought back, "he beat me up along with his brothers one time with a pool cue for some misunderstanding, can't remember what it was exactly" squinting he added, "and he was my occasional weed dealer back in the day. We didn't interact a lot, but I know who he is; not sure he would remember me." Said with a dismissive shrug. 

Ian would bet Mickey hadn't been aware Lip was his brother and one of Frank's kids. Nodding his own head, Ian was taking it in. None of what Lip described was terribly surprising given the scams he had been running back then. The only thing that struck him as odd was Mickey having Lip write papers for him. For a person convinced he didn't have a chance to be successful, it was interesting he would have even tried to get passing grades. 

"You know old man Milkovich is still alive, right?" Lip was giving him a significant look like that alone should mean something.

"Okay?" He recalled from Mandy that their dad was a violent prick, but his memory and the details were fuzzy. The bipolar meds made his teen years, even before he'd gone off the manic deep end, feel more like watching a grainy movie of someone else's life than actually recalling specific details. 

"How were you gay on the South Side and so oblivious?" Ian's glare prompted Lip to continue, "He's a notorious fag basher. I can't imagine he would be chill if his own son was gay."

"Well, Mickey _is_ gay, and I am guessing that's part of why he's still in the closet." Ian couldn't help but give Lip a withering look like he was dense despite being brilliant.

Patting the air like he was trying to get Ian to calm down, Lip just admonished, "Yeah, just be careful, okay?" And it was a good reminder, even if Lip was clumsy in his support, he _did_ care. "I know how you get when you are focused on something you want, you don't listen to reason" he literally started ticking things off on his fingers, "you don't pay attention to red flags." He had officially gone from being supportive to being an annoying asshole in Ian's book. "You get defensive and avoidant," Ian was about to break in and set him straight when he ended with, "but hey, the good thing about dating a Milkovich is you can always do better."

Ian punched him in the arm for that comment. **Hard**. "Fuck you, Lip." He lit up another cigarette. "I don't even know why I talk to you." 

Lip just chortled at the whole situation, which he seemed to think was hilarious; Ian was sure his humor was aided by being high. Lip lit up another smoke as well, and they settled back to catch up further on less divisive topics. 

***

Ian glanced at the clock on the stove; Mickey should be arriving in twenty minutes if he showed at all. He figured it was about equal possibility he was about to be ghosted, well deserved for his pushiness. When he decided to pursue Mickey on Sunday with his first text message volley, he had firmly resolved to go _slow_. Ease Mickey into more contact, become his non-threatening, undemanding text buddy he occasionally met up with to fuck. But Ian had poor impulse control. Mainly when it came to his personal life. He was basically proving Lip’s list of character flaws for him. 

Ian had rolled over in bed that morning, and without the pressure to get up and go to work, had just stared at the ceiling. Thinking. Wondering about Mickey, what he was doing, what his life was like? He couldn’t get him out of his head. Grabbing the phone off his nightstand, he looked over their very brief text exchanges from the week again. He just wanted so much; he really needed desperately to know if Mickey felt the same kind of connection. Maybe for Mickey, it was just a good fuck, and he would be willing to keep Ian on his roster when he had an itch to scratch. The thought of that made him a little nauseous; he knew that wouldn't be sustainable for him. Stupidly, he was already getting emotionally attached. Once the insidious thought set in, that maybe this was all one-sided, and Mickey was just humoring him, he couldn't let it go. The long, slow approach wasn't going to work. 

Deciding to just go for it, he sent the text inviting Mickey over before he could talk himself out of it. He had physically cringed, rolled over, and curled in on himself while his mind raced. He had considered sending a retraction text almost immediately but discarded the idea and set the phone aside to avoid temptation. Heart in throat, it had been the longest twenty minutes of his life. He had seriously contemplated putting his phone down the garbage disposal, but that would have required getting out of bed. When Mickey agreed to come over, Ian's fingers didn't engage his brain and went ahead and included dinner. He was playing dirty pool. Mickey was showing up to get fucked, and Ian was building pie in the sky dreams that this could be some grand romance. He was pretty sure this was going to blow up in his face and end in inevitable heartbreak. 

It had been a rough week, and honestly, Ian just really craved Mickey's company. He even acknowledged, if only to himself, that his desire for Mickey’s company was disproportionate to the amount of time they had actually spent with each other. Most of which had been occupied with getting into each other's pants. His emotional slump, complete with a negative talk track playing on a loop in his head about all the ways he was a terrible choice as a partner for anyone, really messed him up. Hearing Lip's nagging concern about risky choices and consequences wasn't giving him much rest either. When Mickey responded and agreed to come over for the evening, suddenly, things weren’t quite so dark. But that was its own trap. He knew it was unhealthy; he shouldn’t be reliant on others to feel stable, to feel good about himself, and where his life was going. 

Tuesday, in particular, had been a tough day. He and Sue had lost a teen boy on the way to the hospital to an undiagnosed heart issue. The kid had collapsed on their high school football field during practice. Ian didn't know much about him at the time besides the medical stats he was monitoring and calling in as they rushed to the hospital, lights flashing. They had done everything they could, but it hadn’t been enough. In the days since he had passed, little tidbits of information had floated around about him. He had been up for a full-ride scholarship; he’d had an opportunity to get out of the South Side. Make something of himself. Yet he had been snuffed out in a moment. Life was fragile. And temporary. The dark clouds that had been lurking on the horizon since Sunday had felt like they were closing in by Tuesday evening. 

On a good week, with his mood and emotions in balance, those kinds of cases were terrible. It made him feel like he was drowning when piled on top of the shit his brain was throwing at him. As a result, he had pulled out his self-care routine and followed it scrupulously. He came home, disrobed in the bathroom and showered immediately because if he got close to the bed before he was clean and fed, it was game over. Into the kitchen to eat something easy and nutritious. The frozen dinner he heated in the microwave he had considered close enough. Then, finally, he had given in and crawled into bed. No checking news channels, no getting lost looking at social media. On days like Tuesday, he wouldn’t even talk to his siblings. On those nights, he went to sleep, _hoping_ he would wake up feeling the same or better in the morning.

The only deviation to his routine he had allowed himself was to text Mickey. Then he had shut off his phone to avoid obsessing over checking it on repeat for a response. He set the old school alarm clock he kept on his nightstand for evenings like this, when he wasn’t able to rely on his phone to wake him.

He had woken up Wednesday morning feeling better and was able to hold onto most of that throughout the day and the rest of the week. Between Mickey finally responding to his text's midweek and Liam’s birthday party on Thursday, he had felt his mood slowly lifting by yesterday. 

Once Mickey agreed to come over, and Ian had offered dinner, he had started stressing about what to make or order. Thinking of ordering in takeout as an option was quickly discarded; he wanted to make Mickey something warm and comforting. He wasn’t sure why, but Mickey triggered all of his protective instincts; he had from the very beginning when he set out the headache meds after inexplicably bringing a drunk Mickey back to his apartment instead of dumping him in an Uber. He had settled on homemade pizza. Simple and universally liked. Growing up the way they did meant knowing how to do a basic level of quick-cooking on a dime. 

He spent time straightening the apartment after a week of clothes tossed on the floor and dishes piled in the sink, and that had taken him into the early afternoon. Once he was satisfied that the place was presentable, he had made the necessary trip to the grocery store. The salad was now in the fridge crisping, and he was putting sauce on the rolled-out pizza dough while sausage cooked on the stove. 

Ian knew he was overthinking the evening, but he felt helpless to stop. He had chosen black jeans and a black tank top that he knew made his skin look extra pale and showed his freckles and muscles well. He may not have the body of his teenage years any longer and was sensitive about specific areas like his stomach, but he also knew how to highlight his best features. 

He had been getting men's attention since he was a skinny bean pole, and while he could look back and see that perhaps Kash, Ned and the others had been wrong for fawning all over him, he still got a shameful thrill from it. 

To be desired, to be found worthy. 

Men had given him attention, gifted him expensive shoes, CD’s and jackets, but most of all, they were alluring to young Ian because they had been _respectable_. That was something he didn’t have much of a role model for with fuckin’ Frank as a father. Kash had been the least affluent person he slept with as a pubescent teen but, in some ways, the most intimate since they had worked together, and he knew Linda and the boys. That really fucked him up sometimes if he thought too hard about the few years he had worked there, the deception and the convoluted nature of fucking your married boss. 

It had been much later, when he was older and wiser to the ways of the world, that the creepy and predatory behavior had become apparent. He had felt so _special_. Some of those encounters had been while he was manic, but sometimes it had just been him being desperate, looking to be noticed. His childhood was the classic middle child experience. Nearly all of his clothes were handed down, and he was always in Lip's shadow, whom everyone knew was ridiculously smart and had a future ahead of him if he could curb his attitude. Ian learned not to demand or expect much; he mostly kept to himself and got a legitimate job even before he was of legal age to contribute and do his part. He helped with his younger siblings. He was reliable and dependable. 

Those men had made him feel _seen_ , and it had felt _good_. It had felt _great_. He had always thought he was getting more from the relationship than they were. 

It embarrassed him deeply to reflect on it, but he could see that he had been searching for affection. He had gone through a long period feeling humiliated that he had allowed his need for love, or even the poor facsimile he had received, to be exploited. When he really had that epiphany, he had been shocked by his own naiveté, and he had felt so stupid. It took him a long time to get past feeling unclean and gross as a person. That embarrassment that he had _allowed_ himself to be taken advantage of still slid under his skin sometimes and could catch him unaware. 

He had finally come to accept those sexual experiences as part of his history and tried not to dwell on them too much. On rare occasions, he consciously pulled out the conditioning about how to get noticed and used it to his advantage. In a small way, it made him feel powerful. Made him confident in a way that could be fleeting but felt **so** good while it was happening. He had chosen his outfit tonight, knowing it was flattering and effectively showed off some of the physical attributes he thought Mickey may find most appealing. His mind finally quieted down with the determination that, one way or another, the evening was going to conclude with more clarity about where he stood with Mickey. 

Once the part of his mind focused on obsessing about Mickey directly and what his intentions were had paused its vicious worry cycle, he had more space to low-key freak out about his body, specifically performance anxiety. Coming off his low meant his dick’s cooperation was inconsistent at best. Thoughts of being with Mickey revved him up mentally without question; he wanted to smell the back of his neck, wanted to rub against him like a big cat, tuck him up close into the lee of his body. Distantly sex felt like it would probably be pleasant, but genuine sexual desire was muted. Worst case scenario, pizza and a blowjob wasn’t a terrible evening, was it? He felt his face flame with the thought of the potential future humiliation. He didn’t want to be a tease, luring him in and then unable to follow through.

These were the kind of anxieties and experiences that had led him to go off his medication previously. Taking a moment, Ian closed his eyes and went through his breathing exercises in an attempt to shove the stress and anxiety firmly to the side and try to make space to enjoy the evening ahead. He wasn't ready to unload about his disease with Mickey yet. Talk about a boner killer.

The knock, when it came, was loud. Ian didn't know what to expect when he opened it, but a pissed off Mickey had been a distinct possibility he had considered. Opening the door, he could see Mickey standing there with another six-pack of beer. His hands were a little twitchy, eyes scanning the hall like he was checking to make sure nobody was watching. He was energetically vibrating so hard Ian took a physical step back and could still feel it resonate in his whole person even though Mickey wasn't actually moving that much. Ian couldn't have really described it if he'd been asked to, but he could sense Mickey's anxiousness on a primitive level. He stepped further back to let him in before he bolted. 

Mickey entered his apartment, set the beer on the counter, and immediately began shedding his jacket. He hung it on the back of a chair at the small dining table. Then he kind of looked around at a loss for what to do with himself.

Taking pity, Ian moved back into the kitchen and offered a task for him to complete, "Can you stir the sausage on the stove and make sure it's cooked? Should be nearly done." Rolling his lips inward and biting to keep the smile contained that wanted to burst free just by him showing up, Ian turned away to focus on the other toppings he was putting on the pizza. "We are having pizza and salad for dinner." He could hear Mickey pushing the meat in the pan to ensure it was cooked. Ian handed him the plate he had prepared with paper towels to blot the sausage on. "When it's done, you can use the slotted spoon to pull it out and drain it on this, and then we will add it." They worked in somewhat companionable silence for a few minutes, although Ian was keenly aware of Mickey behind him the whole time.

Mickey followed his directions, and he heard the stove being turned off before he handed Ian the drained meat. Tipping his head in indication since his hands were occupied, "Why don't you grab yourself one of those beers and put the others in the fridge."

"You want one, man?" As Mickey circled behind him to put the remaining ones in the fridge as requested.

"Nah, gonna stick with a coke." He didn't need anything more destabilizing in his system; Mickey's presence was enough. "Can you grab the salad and put it on the table?" Ian didn’t miss the face Mickey made at the mention of salad, but he did as asked. After putting the salad in the center of the dining table, Mickey watched from the other side of the counter as Ian put the last of the toppings on the pizza and then slipped the pie into the oven and set a timer.

There was an awkward pause, which Ian filled with loading the few dirty dishes he had into the dishwasher. Glancing up, he smiled at Mickey; he didn’t try to hide it this time; he wanted Mickey to see his pleasure at his presence. He was thrilled to have him in such close proximity. Those intense blue eyes were zeroed in on him, watching closely. Getting caught watching, Mickey gulped down a huge swig of beer.

"Glad you decided to come." He always wanted Mickey to know he was happy to see him.

"Whatever, man." He finished his beer, gave a soft belch, and shifted his weight from foot to foot in nervousness.

Ian grabbed another beer for him and a coke for himself and then came around the edge of the counter to stand closer as he handed it over, "Wasn't sure you would with the way you left last weekend."

"Yeah." Cracking open the new beer and taking a sip, “Sorry ‘bout that.” Nothing else, Mickey was still vibrating, but as soon as Ian had moved around the counter, his fidgeting and stopped, and he was standing stalk still. Watching Ian out of the corner of his eye. 

"I couldn't stop thinking about you." Push, push, push. It was what he did when he wanted something. He needed to know if Mickey wanted something too. He wasn’t sure what Mickey would let himself admit to wanting.

"Yeah, whatever." Sidling away a little, Mickey was doing his best to maintain personal space. "We don't need to talk about it." His hand not holding the beer was wrapped tightly around the back of the barstool in front of him. Ian could see him subtly trying to pull in a full breath; he would have missed it if he wasn’t watching him intently. Eye contact was not even a possibility at the moment; Mickey stared intently straight into the kitchen. “Just fuckin chill, alright?” The tone was a plea, but Ian genuinely didn’t understand what he meant. 

"Why wouldn't we talk about it?" Ian held his ground but didn't move closer. He wanted to talk about what this was, confirm Mickey felt it too. Felt at least a smidge of something. It couldn't all be his brain playing tricks on him, could it? His brain was cruel, but he hoped not that cruel. Mickey was here, so that had to mean something. Even though he hadn't been able to get hard all week, just smelling Mickey was turning him on a little. He felt his spirit lighten at the realization; maybe his body would cooperate tonight after all.

"Fuck Gallagher, you talk too much." Turning so he was now facing Ian, he glared up at him, eyebrows snapped down. Ah, there was some serious eye contact. He was itching his expressive eyebrow with his finger, which Ian took to mean he was getting agitated. "Why can't you just leave well enough alone." Said low but fierce. 

Stepping up to the unspoken challenge and right into his space, Ian leaned down a little, "I just want you to admit it." This wasn't how he had planned on easing Mickey into a discussion, but one way or another, they were going to hash this out. Mickey seemed to be spoiling for something, agitated and out of sorts. Ian was never going to be able to resist shoving against that prickly exterior to see what was below it. “You feel something between us." Moving his hand to the back of Mickey’s neck, “C’mon, admit it.” He wouldn’t beg, but he had no problems being forceful, insistent. 

In the right circumstance, he might beg. 

Mickey's brows came down even further, and he reared back and slapped Ian's hand away. “Fuck you,” he shoved Ian back out of his space, hard. Ian stumbled but caught himself on the counter at his back. "Not everybody gets to fuckin’ blurt out how they feel every fuckin’ minute." Ian was taken off guard by the shove, but he had too many years fighting and roughhousing with his brothers and others not to react. Using the counter as leverage, he pushed off and came at Mickey fast, slamming him against the opposite dining room wall. The generic framed picture hanging there crashed to the ground, along with a potted plant Fiona had given him. He didn’t give a fuck about any of that at the moment.

Being shoved against the wall set Mickey off, and his return attack was swift and vicious with a jab to Ian's flank and a solid right hook to his cheek. As his head rocked back, Ian momentarily considered head butting the little fucker in retaliation. Instead, his ROTC honed instincts kicked in, and he caught the wrist of the arm that had just clocked him and spun Mickey around. He twisted Mickey’s right wrist up behind his back at a painful angle while pinning his left wrist against the wall. He held Mickey mostly immobile even while he thrashed around to the extent he could in the macabre embrace. 

Using the leverage produced by the position and the additional height and weight he had on Mickey, Ian unnecessarily slammed Mickey twice against the wall for good measure. His own face and side ached where Mickey had tagged him hard; he didn’t feel bad about giving Mickey a few gratuitous knocks.

“Fuck you, get off me, you fucking fuck!” He was pissed, but he was pinned in a way that prevented him from doing much damage, so Ian let him continue to struggle; he would eventually wear himself out.

Mickey made an effort to kick back with his legs, but Ian just widened his stance, and the few glancing blows weren’t enough to unlock him. “You better be ready to put a fucking bullet in my chest,” he was starting to pant heavily, “cause if you aren’t, you’re going to be fuckin' sorry.” Ian didn’t doubt Mickey was pissed, but strangely he wasn’t actually worried about getting murdered by him. 

Ian didn’t bother responding to his loud proclamations, just waited him out until he finally started running out of steam. His mouth didn’t stop expressing his foul-mouthed frustration, telling Ian several more times to fuck off, calling him a pussy, a cocksucking whore, and an AIDS monkey amid more threats of violence. It was sort of an impressive tirade, and Ian just let him rage. 

Mickey slowly stopped thrashing about and leaned his forehead against the wall, blowing out a deep breath, panting hard. Ian tightened his grip even more, waiting to see if he was going to continue to fight. Ian was winded too at this point just from trying to contain the storm that was Mickey Milkovich when he was pissed. 

"You done?" Mickey's wrists were going to have bruises. He was fairly sure it was the wrong response that the thought sent a zing right to his groin. He wanted Mickey to move through the world with marks on his skin from him. It was a possessive and primitive desire. Something to unpack for later. Or not. 

Nothing for several breaths in and out, and then Mickey gave one more hard yank and attempted to dive sideways, trying to jerk out of Ian’s embrace with no luck. Ian slammed him hard against the wall again; this time it stunned Mickey a bit, and he stilled.

“Now, are you done?” It was a long pause again before Mickey nodded his head by bumping it softly against the wall it was pressed against. He let out a shaky breath, and he crumpled in on himself a bit in defeat.

"Listen to me." Easing the pressure again just a little, cautiously watching for sudden movement. Leaning down and speaking right into his ear, "In this space, right here, right now." Loosening his grip a little more, feeling Mickey squirm a bit as he got slightly more freedom of motion in the arm still pinned behind his back. "You’re free.” He didn’t comment on the absurdity of his proclamation while restricting Mickey's movements so severely. Moving from pinning his left wrist to covering his U-UP hand, he wove their fingers together with his palm over the back of Mickey’s hand. If Mickey really wanted to, he could yank his hand out from underneath his. “You hearing me?”

He could hear Mickey's breath hitch as he sucked in a breath, and then he squeezed Ian’s fingers linked with his own, acknowledging the statement. The possibility. The space they could co-create. At that moment, it was enough of an answer for Ian. Releasing the wrist he had pinned to his back, he brought his arm around to Mickey’s chest, making soothing passes across the broad expanse. He felt Mickey reach the released FUCK hand back to grip his hip, pulling him closer. Mickey’s breathing continued to shudder as he kept his head tipped against the wall, but he let Ian explore uninterrupted. Neither of them made any move to step out of the cocoon they existed in for a few moments. 

Ian ran his hand down the maroon shirt Mickey was wearing and up under the hem to feel the warm flesh of his stomach. He rubbed the smooth skin of his abdomen and then eased his hand down to his crotch over his jeans. As Ian had suspected, Mickey was hard. Mickey began rubbing up against the pressure he offered. Ian quickly opened his buckle, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans with his one free hand so he could feel him. Mickey just shuffled his legs a bit wider to give more space and squeezed Ian’s right hip in his hand. The adrenaline, manhandling Mickey, the excitement that he might have gotten through to him were all working together. Ian was half hard. He let the feeling wash over him after nearly a week of virtually nonexistent desire; it was thrilling.

Briefly cupping Mickey through his boxer briefs, he heard him grunt softly as he sought more. Mickey finally tipped his head back to rest on Ian’s shoulder, leaving his neck exposed. Ian immediately leaned down and took a lungful of his scent. He finally tucked his hand inside the waistband of Mickey’s boxers and grabbed his dick. “Fuck” Mickey said so so quietly like he couldn’t bear to break the moment either.

Ian squeezed him, Mickey bucked into his hand and was leaking a bit but not nearly enough for a smooth glide. It didn’t stop him as he continued to thrust. The slightly dry jerk session _had_ to be causing somewhat painful friction but Mickey just seemed to squirm more, shove harder. Nosing behind his ear and nibbling on the edge, he continued to breathe Mickey in; he couldn’t get enough. Edging along his neckline, he bit into the soft spot where Mickey’s neck met his shoulder. That was all it took; Mickey came hard, making a huffing sound like it took him by surprise. Pressed as hard as he was against Ian's front, Ian could feel the full-body shiver that went through him, and he felt Mickey squeeze his fingers tight, still against the wall. Loosening his grip on Mickey's cock a little, he let the slick come now, coating his hand, ease the last few strokes, milked him through the tail end of his orgasm. Mickey sagged against him, let him take his weight, comfort him. He turned his head into Ian’s neck, rubbing his head against Ian’s chin in what could only be considered an affectionate gesture. 

Pulling his hand carefully out of Mickey’s boxers, covered in his spend, he rubbed it into the skin of Mickey's pelvis, just above his pubic hair. Gently easing Mickey back into the moment, he released the hand still under his against the wall and brought it down to his side, where it stayed limp for a moment before Mickey reached back and gripped the other side of his hip as well. Ian tipped Mickey’s chin up and could see his lips were red and slightly swollen from having bitten them. Leaning down, Ian captured Mickey’s mouth, explored a little with his tongue, but kept it soft. Pulling back slightly, he was thrilled when Mickey unconsciously leaned up to follow his lips. Ian gave him one more brief kiss before pulling back entirely. 

Mickey turned, leaned against the wall, arms hanging at his side, head tilted back, and eyes closed. If Ian didn’t know any better, he would think Mickey was floating a bit. His left cheek was red and scraped up where it had been slammed against the wall repeatedly. Seeing it gave Ian a pang of regret. Stepping up close, Ian sorted him out and rebuttoned and buckled his pants and belt. It felt essential and tenuous, this peace. Ian didn’t want to put distance between them right then. Bracketing Mickey’s shoulders and kissing his forehead, Ian whispered to him, reinforcing the sentiment, “This right here, what you and I have, is where you get to be free.” Running his nose along Mickey's cheek and into his hair to inhale, “Understand?” Eyes closed, swallowing hard, Mickey gave a single nod. 

Mickey reached down, cupping Ian’s crotch and feeling his half-hard cock, a small blissed-out smile spread across his face. “You need anything?” For Ian, the pressure to perform was off, he wasn’t sure if his body would cooperate later, but for now, he decided to just bask in the feeling of being with Mickey. Of maybe having come to some amorphous understanding of where they were going. Together. Pressing his groin back slightly into the pleasant pressure of Mickey’s palm, he nonetheless declined, “Nah, man, I’m good for now.” He continued running the tip of his nose along Mickey’s cheek as they shared breath, “Maybe later.”

The timer on the oven pinged, startling Mickey and signaling dinner was ready. Ian leaned back a bit and could see Mickey look up through his lashes with a painfully shy smile. “Alright, Gallagher, feed me.”

They moved toward the kitchen and Mickey grabbed his jacket and the pack of smokes he had in the pocket with a “Gonna step out.” As he moved to open the front door. That wouldn’t do. 

“Oh, just a minute, let me take care of this, and then I’ll open the window, and you can smoke over by the window in the living room.” Mickey gave him a skeptical look but waited while Ian pulled the golden pizza out of the oven and set it on the stovetop to rest for a few minutes. Taking off the ridiculous flower print oven mitts Debbie had given him when he moved out as a housewarming gift, Ian herded Mickey over to the two huge windows which overlooked a shared terrace. 

The apartment had minimal landscaping, and all the apartments in the horseshoe-shaped building looked down onto the common terrace. His apartment wasn’t particularly nice, but it was affordable. The building was old and had been shoddily renovated; the windows were original, and the trim had been poorly painted over, which meant they were difficult to get open and tended to stick. Ian knew just the trick after having lived there for a few years, where to apply pressure and lift to cajole the right window into opening; Ian had long ago resigned the left window as being a lost cause. 

Mickey just shook his head and snickered a little as he watched Ian struggle but finally succeeded in getting the pane shoved up. Ian turned, and in the side table placed between the two windows, he opened the drawer and pulled out the heavy glass ashtray that he kept around for when Lip showed up or his own occasional smoke in his apartment. Generally, he smoked when he was out and about and not at home, but he didn’t want to do anything to disrupt the closeness and intimacy they had going. He pulled out his own half-empty pack from the drawer, and when he turned around, Mickey flicked the flame on his lighter and held it out for Ian to lean in and light up.

Mickey then lit his own cigarette and hummed as he sucked the smoke into his lungs; they leaned on either side of the window, holding their cigarettes out of the opening. After his first drag, Mickey said lowly, “Man, that was good.”

It took Ian by surprise that Mickey said anything about earlier, and he felt himself blush with pleasure and get a goofy smile on his face. “Oh yeah?”

It was obvious Mickey was relaxed, and Ian took note that it was the first time he had really seen Mickey’s face without tension. He looked youthful and glowy, notwithstanding the light bruise starting to darken on his cheek. Ian imagined he’d also have a nice shiner by morning too. He should get out a few bags of peas from the freezer for them to help with the swelling, but he really couldn’t be bothered; it sounded cold. 

Mickey ashed in the glass dish and took another drag, “Yeah, most pansies don’t know how to hold their own.” He sounded impressed as he exhaled through his nose, “You look like a North Side yuppy, but you’re a street rat from the Back Of The Yards when it comes down to it.” Leaning over the window sill, Mickey looked down; Ian assumed to make sure nobody was below, and then spit. For some reason, that delighted Ian; this boy was _rough,_ and he might be a little beyond infatuated. 

Flicking the ash again, Mickey gripped the cigarette between his thumb and index finger as he sucked in a hard drag; he stubbed out the last third. Mickey blew his smoke out the window, which Ian did the same as he put out his own half-finished smoke.

Giving a small half-grin, Ian thought he should probably be insulted by the characterization of looking like a yuppy or even being called a pansy, or maybe he should object to being called a street rat but instead, he felt hope bloom that Mickey finally recognized they were kindred spirits. He hadn’t misassessed the possibility there could really be something between them.

Heading back into the kitchen, Ian made quick work of slicing the pizza as Mickey grabbed another beer for himself and switched out the unopened coke on the counter for a fresh one for Ian. Ian had planned on them sitting at the table and having a proper meal together, but they just stood in the kitchen eating slices with paper towels instead of napkins and cupped their hands to catch any wayward crumbs; it was nice. Neither of them even bothered with the salad. Ian was pretty sure Mickey wouldn’t have fussed with the salad if they sat at the table or not.

“You know how to cook much?” Mickey broke the comfortable silence after they had both wolfed down their first slice. Fighting and fucking was hungry work. Ian hadn’t had much of an appetite for the week so enjoying the pizza was its own kind of pleasure. 

“I can get around the kitchen, had to growing up.” Ian grabbed another piece, “Fiona worked varied hours, and there were always mouths to feed.” Motioning at Mickey, “what about you?”

“Nah, we didn’t really cook much. Pop-tarts, pizza rolls and cereal were kinda the main staples.” He took a bite, “Oh, and mac and cheese, I make a good mac and cheese.” He had a pleased smile on his face like that was the peak of cooking accomplishments. Ian knew he was smitten when he found it adorable. He just shook his head, watching as Mickey grabbed another slice to munch on too. 

“From scratch or from the box?” Ian could appreciate both, but he was curious.

Mickey's eyebrows went up, “What the fuck are you even talking about?” He chuckled, “From the box.” Like that was the most absurd question to have been asked.

“Have you ever had homemade mac and cheese?” Mickey’s rolled eyes were enough of an answer, “Okay, next time you come over, I’ll make homemade mac and cheese.” Setting down his crust, Ian snagged the loop of Mickey's jeans and tugged him closer. Leaning against the counter with legs spread, he pulled Mickey between them.

He watched as Mickey took a deep breath and let it out slowly, cheeks warming a little. Reaching over, Mickey set the remainder of his slice down too and then slowly. So slowly. Placed his hands on Ian's upper shoulders. Ian watched Mickey watching his own hands intently as he rubbed where the fabric of Ian's tank top and skin met. Glancing up, then back to watching his own hands, he said quietly, “Sure, that’d be good.” And it took Ian a minute to remember what they were talking about. Right, the mac and cheese, and that meant Mickey agreed to come back. Having the confirmation settled something deep inside of him. The tension he hadn’t even been aware of eased off, and he felt light and carefree for the first time in over a week. 

“You know, I never got to see those tattoos.” Mickey ran his hands down Ian’s pecs and towards his stomach, where he could pull up the hem of his tank. Ian put his hands on the counter behind him and let Mickey explore. Given what little he knew and could glean from Mickey’s behavior, he suspected the luxury of touching and taking his time wasn’t something Mickey would have had the opportunity to do often, if at all. Mickey glanced up at Ian to check and make sure what he was doing was okay, and Ian nodded. Mickey inched the shirt up, hands against Ian’s skin. Ian sucked his stomach in; he knew his concern about his abs was _somewhat_ in his head, but it was where he was thickest, and he couldn’t help but be self-conscious. Mickey didn’t seem to notice, watching intently as his hands moved the shirt up and revealed the eagle tattoo carrying a machine gun. On his opposite side, he sported a tender bruise from where Mickey had punched him earlier. Mickey's face pulled into a scowl as he very lightly ran the tips of his fingers over the bruise.

He stepped back, “Sorry.” Running his finger along one eyebrow, “Shouldn’t of hit ya.” And he sniffed, looking away. 

“Yeah, not how I saw the evening going, but it’s not so bad.” Tugging on Mickey’s belt loop again, “Let's not make it a habit, Okay?” And then he leaned down for a brief bussing of lips. Mickey immediately stepped further into his space, hands back on his shoulders, kneading, leaning up on his toes to better align their mouths. Mickey seemed very tactile when he wasn’t on high alert and anxious. 

Just casually standing in his kitchen, making out with this person, he was utterly into filled Ian up to the brim. He felt like he was topped up with helium, and the only thing keeping him grounded were Mickey’s hands on his shoulders. Drawing Mickey in, he placed his hands along the back of his neck and felt him shiver. He rubbed his thumb along the hairline of his nape, and like in the booth at the club last weekend, Mickey pushed back into the sensation. 

Ian had been sexually active since his early teens and had an extensive sexual history. Some of it had been good sex; most of it was largely mediocre sex and lots of terrible fumbling. Hands down, the simple act of making out with Mickey in his kitchen was turning out to be a more satisfying sexual experience than with all others previously. He could feel the lust surge back, and he was pretty sure his body wasn’t going to betray him tonight.

Deciding it was time to move to the bed, Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand and turned toward the bedroom. As he did, Mickey cracked up, laughing behind him. Turning around with an eyebrow raised, Mickey indicated his shoulder. “I see the other tattoo.” He was one hundred percent laughing _at_ Ian, and it made him roll his eyes and smile; seeing Mickey loose and a little giddy was a real treat. Pulling him into the bedroom, he drew him up, wanting to taste that smile on his lips, and it was as intoxicating as he had thought it would be.

They shimmied out of their clothes and onto the bed and just stared at each other for a minute before leaning in and kissing some more. There was no rush as Ian rolled Mickey beneath him and continued to make out. The deep steadiness and genuine connection wrapped Ian up until he felt like he was drifting. Kisses were given to shoulders and hands on hips and flanks, trailing fingers on sensitive skin. Ian felt Mickey run his working man's hands, with their slight callouses, up his back and into the hair at his nape, holding him close and making him shiver. Intent on discovering, Ian roamed down Mickey's chest, stopping at his nipples, giving a suck and bite. Mickey physically jerked and arched into his mouth; looking up with a raised eyebrow, Ian watched him react, surprise evident on his face.

Using his thumb and forefinger to roll the wet nub between his fingers, he asked, “Ever had your nipples played with?” Chewing on his bottom lip, face red, Mickey just shook his head, breath hitching, and he continued to press into the sensation. Ian moved to the other nipple and swirled his tongue, and felt Mickey's nipple tighten in response. There would be lots to explore with Mickey ahead, and Ian could barely contain his excitement. If he hadn’t had his nipples played with, something that was nearly mundane in Ian’s opinion, he could only imagine all the other firsts or near first experiences they could explore together. Feeling lust shoot through him, he was now fully hard but still not in a rush. As he moved down Mickey’s chest, intent on sucking his cock, he felt Mickey tap his shoulder. Looking up, Mickey was handing him the lube and shoved him back enough so he could flip over and move things along. He rested his weight on his forearms, waiting for Ian. 

Okay, he could go at Mickey’s pace; if Ian had anything to say about it, they might have a whole future together ahead to explore everything. It was impulsive to think that way, dangerous, but he **would** have that future with Mickey by hook or by crook for as long as Mickey was on board. Sitting back on his haunches, he flipped the cap on the lube and put it on his fingers to begin prepping Mickey, who had gotten on his knees at the sound, legs spread. And holy fuck, so hot, that round ass, thick thighs, and when Ian started to stretch him, his hole pulsed around his finger. He was so sensitive. He took his time, watched his finger disappear and when he had loosened a bit, he added a second finger. Leaning forward, he nestled his face into the side of Mickey’s neck as he continued to work him open.

“You feel so hot on my finger,” Moving from two to three fingers, Mickey tilted his hips to adjust the angle and gripped the sheets with the increased fullness. “You’re really sensitive; you ever been eaten out?” Ian said it quietly, just a question for him. He wasn’t sure how much Mickey was even paying attention to his words until he felt the full-body shudder. “Will you let me do it?” Just the thought made Ian groan.

“Fuck off,” said with some venom and annoyance but not enough to keep him from pressing back on the fingers inside him.

“Will you let me rim you sometime, Mickey? Use my tongue to open you up instead of my fingers.” Mickey clenched hard.

Barely whispered, “oh god,” as Mickey let his head hang, forehead on the sheets. 

"Will you, Mickey? I'll make it so good for you." His desire to feel Mickey squirming on his tongue, to be open to him in another way, was intensely visceral.

Muffled a little, "Fuck," and then possibly even quieter, “Don’t make me say it, man.”

Goddamn, when the time came, he was going to make Mickey feel so good. “It’s okay; you don’t need to say it.” Mickey was ready, and Ian quickly got a condom on along with more lube and entered him, a little swifter than he typically would because he was certain Mickey liked it and could handle it, and he was right. Once he was fully seated, he pulled Mickey up, he was bracketed by Ian’s thighs, and Ian had easy access to run his hands all over his chest, a feeling he was quickly becoming addicted to. Mickey reached both hands back and threaded them in Ian's hair, gripping while undulating his hips.

Ian moved one hand down to stroke Mickey’s cock while he continued to stroke his chest, tweaked his nipples. He was apparently vocal tonight, which wasn’t exactly typical, but he had so much to say to Mickey, it was like his voice had been released. “You feel so good, so tight.” Mickey clasped Ian’s dick with his body even tighter in response. “Do you know why you don’t have to say it?” Not waiting for an answer but continuing to talk, “Because I want you in my _bed_ and in my _life_.” This probably wasn’t the place for such declarations, but the words kept falling, “I want to give you what you _want_ ; what you _need_.” Mickey’s dick was leaking profusely now, and he was riding Ian with focused intensity, grip in his hair almost brutal, whining. He was getting close, and so was Ian. “You are **safe** here with me” It was a fierce assertion, said with conviction, and Mickey’s breathing seemed to pause, then he was coming hard. Babbling mindlessly, Ian stroked him as he went over the edge, “Safe with me, so safe, I will keep you safe.” He hadn’t even been aware of the words he was going to say but once proclaimed, he felt in his gut how true those words were. He would do **anything** in his power to keep this man safe.

Trembles subsiding for both of them, Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey's torso and ribcage, surrounding him. Slowly, Mickey pulled his arms down and covered over the top of Ian’s, laying his head back on his shoulder, eyes closed. Ian just breathed into his neck, trying to catch his breath. He wanted to stay wrapped up like this forever, but practicality as he softened inside Mickey and gravity worked against that possibility. Unwinding his arms after taking another moment, Ian reached down to hold onto the edge of the condom as he pulled out; Mickey silently cooperated by toppling forward with a groan and burying his face in one of the pillows. 

Discarding the condom and getting a warm wet rag, Ian wiped himself down and then gently used the cloth to clean between Mickey's cheeks. He had startled at the first touch of the damp rag and then realized what was happening and promptly buried his face even deeper into the pillow. Ian thought that was kind of adorable, and if he could see his cheeks, he was most likely blushing. Tossing the rag toward the bathroom entrance to deal with later, Ian lay down and tentatively put his hand on Mickeys' back. Mickey had freaked out last week when he should have been enjoying post-coital bliss, and Ian wasn’t confident that wouldn’t happen again. Mickey, whose face was now turned away but not buried in the pillow so he could breath, inched a bit closer, accepting the caress. Ian wanted to whoop with joy; this felt like another win. 

He felt his eyes droop, all the stress of the week and the exertion of the evening were getting to him, and he drifted off satisfied and content. Probably with a dopey smile on his face.

***

Shivering, Ian woke in the middle of the night, needing to piss and realizing he hadn’t taken his night time meds. He looked over to where Mickey should have been resting, and it was empty; a quick search around confirmed his clothes were gone too. The spot was cold to the touch. **Fuck** , he had hoped they were past this. Blowing out a breath, he went to the bathroom, took his pills, and brushed his teeth. Going into the living room to close the window left open, he glanced in the kitchen, expecting a mess, but it looked tidy.

First shutting the window, he then went into the kitchen and flipped on the light over the sink that cast a soft glow. Peering into the dining area, he saw the picture that had been knocked down during their scuffle was now leaning against the wall, and the potted plant had been righted, and the soil scraped back into the pot passably well. Opening the fridge, he confirmed a plate with the leftovers were put away, the salad, and all of it with saran wrap covering it. The counters had been wiped down, and the dishrag, still a little damp to the touch, was over the faucet. Feeling a tightening in his chest at both the fact that Mickey had snuck out and the caring he had shown to tidy up his space before going. Ian felt cared for even through that small act, and while he was disappointed Mickey hadn’t stayed, this also didn’t seem like the actions of someone who had no interest in talking or seeing him again.

He was turning to go back to bed when the yellow post-it note caught his eye. Stuck to the front of his coffee pot where he would see it first thing, Mickey had scribbled a note, lettering barely legible. “ _Sorry had to go. Talk soon_.” That confirmed it, he _wasn’t_ running away. Still skittish but coming around. Ian could tell he was grinning like an idiot. Planning to throw the note out, he popped the lid on the trashcan and spotted more yellow peeking out from under the paper towels Mickey had thrown out when tidying up. Moving the napkins to the side, he could see multiple discarded post-it notes with incomplete messages scribbled on them and then crossed out. Ian, of course, retrieved all of them. 

_~~Hey Ian – not sure we should meet again~~ _

_~~That was fun but maybe we should~~ _

_~~I told you I didn’t do repeats~~ _

_~~Call me later if you want to go another round~~ _

_~~I have no idea what I am doing but I did~~ _

_~~Sorry I punched you, I shouldn’t have done that~~ _

_~~Maybe this isn’t a good idea~~ _

_~~This isn’t a good time right now~~ _

_~~SORRY!!~~ _

These were obviously not the message Mickey had decided to leave. Taking all of the post-it notes over to the side table between the windows where he kept his smokes, he tucked them all in the back for safekeeping. 

Crawling in bed, alone, he felt a pang that it wasn’t with Mickey like he had hoped. He wouldn’t get to make him pancakes in the morning and spoil him like he was dying to do. But soon. He was closer than ever. He drifted back to sleep, feeling more peaceful than he had felt in a very long time, maybe ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, Mickey is getting there and Ian is being patient but things don't change overnight. They both still have things to work out and histories to share. 
> 
> Comments are love and I read every one of them. Hoping the intimate scenes in this chapter came across as meaningful and not cheesy. :) There, if I have to deal with my angst, I guess you do too! 
> 
> [Ian and Lip in the Bus](https://64.media.tumblr.com/89d2980a9fd7b289c9b03b5b2c5a65c1/852f72095f3eba4d-f4/s1280x1920/c0f0a8efd36d1db16067b9658e40be8d1eeaafe2.jpg)
> 
> [Ian and Mickey after their little tussle](https://64.media.tumblr.com/db4d047e44673782f67c7b910e6b8168/1db045439bb98cef-44/s2048x3072/12acbd0ae644d41a0ddfea993d7cfc33a7249282.jpg)
> 
> Luluxa created the fun companion art pieces for this chapter and you can find all of her work here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a mixed chapter with lots of angst but what I think of as happy moments and progress too. 
> 
> Warning for cannon typical slurs and some near panic attack and disassociative moments. 
> 
> Trigger Warning for discussion and thoughts about both Mandy and Mickey's rape. Nothing particularly graphic but implied and Mickey has deep and complicated feelings about both. 
> 
> Lots of events in the US have been scary for many this week and I hope this provides a little relief from the real life drama. However, take care of yourself and if angst isn't best for you then enjoy the art and hold off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. She continues to be a great beta for my work.  
> All mistakes are my own as I tweaked it after her review.
> 
> Companion artwork for the chapter by [Luluxa](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//) which is imbeded in the story and linked at the bottom.

Wiping the sticky lid on the syrup container, Mickey found its spot in the cabinet and put it away. Next, he tightened the lid on the peanut butter jar and put it away. He heard a knife clatter against a dish and barely contained his jump, tightening his fingers on the dishrag he was wiping things down with.

Angie came up behind him, reaching over his shoulder, and grabbed the syrup and peanut butter back out of the cupboard.

Mickey slid sideways, away from the close contact. His skin felt overly sensitive. Throwing a glare over his shoulder at her he wondered why she was undoing his tidying. He just wanted things orderly and he had already cleaned the pan, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and even put out place settings at the table for everyone before they came out to eat breakfast. 

Giving him a raised brow back, "We aren't done eating, Mick," and gestured as she sat back down at the table where Svetlana and Yev were still eating. Everyone was still in their sleeping clothes. Yev was working on cutting his pancake into squares and butchering it instead but had declined assistance when Svet had offered. He felt sheepish when he realized he had gone from cooking to cleanup mode without actually giving time to eat.

"You sit, you eat with us." Svet motioned to the empty chair and the untouched place setting across from her. Svet didn't really ask things; she more commanded or directed. It was just her way, and for the most part, Mickey had learned to not let it bother him, but on occasion, it made his hackles rise. "And bring coffee." Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the glass carafe and set it on the table between Angie and Svet for easy reach. Svet immediately picked up a mug and poured a fresh cup, setting it down across from her by the empty place setting where Mickey, if he was seated, would be. 

"Nah, I'm good." Slow breath in and blowing it out, trying to keep his cool. "Not hungry." The thought of putting something in his mouth right now might make him physically ill, and he was focusing all of his extra energy on chilling out. 

"You sick?" Now she was looking at him intently, her observant eyes making him feel like she could see everything. All the things he didn't want her to see. All the ways he felt vulnerable and out of control right now. Her eyes lingered on his cheek, but she didn't say anything.

"No, m'fine." He just needed to keep moving, stay ahead of the low-level panic he felt simmering. This was all so stupid; he knew there was logically nothing to be afraid of. 

Yev looked up like he just realized there were others at the table now that he had finished "cutting" his pancakes, tongue sticking out with concentration. "Dad, you need to eat breakfast with us." He gave Mickey pleading eyes like he was going to be hurt if Mickey didn't actually sit down, "It’s the most important meal of the day.” Said emphatically, no room for argument.

Mickey slid into the seat but avoided eye contact with Svet, “Yeah, yeah, okay, bud.” He grabbed the mug of coffee she had poured for him, his fingers feeling a little numb, and took a sip. It was tepid, but the bitterness was a bit shocking and seemed to bring him around to the moment, just slightly out of his head. He could sit here and have pancakes like an average parent would on a Sunday morning.

Angie was sitting next to him at the little four-person table where everyone got their own side. The central real estate was taken up with their plates, but everyone made it work. She grabbed up his empty plate, putting a few pancakes on it and slathering them with peanut butter and lots of syrup. Just how he liked it. Added two pieces of bacon he had also felt compelled to cook and set it in front of him. He just looked at it and wondered if he could eat a few bites. 

“Dad, what happened to your cheek?” Yev made like he would stand on his chair to lean over the table for closer inspection.

“Eh, stay seated.” Brushing his finger over his cheek, he felt the slight swelling, “It's fine, just scraped it last night." With a sigh, Yev sat back down, but he kept looking at him with those brows of inquiry high, waiting for Mickey to provide more salacious details. Now Angie and Svet were looking at him with similar brows. Svet and Angie shouldn't be surprised; back in the day, he had frequently shown up bruised and scuffed. He really didn't like all of them staring at him. "Don't worry about it; I just bumped my cheek."

Yev seemed to accept that explanation, but Angie and Svet were going to be a problem. They very obviously didn't believe him with their matched rolled eyes, but at least they went back to eating. 

"You never cook; why this morning?" It was amazing how Svet could grill him in front of the kid and sound perfectly pleasant. 

"Just couldn't sleep." Which was mostly true. "Read the directions and figured even I could add water to the mix." Half a dozen ruined pancakes in the trash he had thoroughly fucked up made a mockery of that statement. It turned out _how_ to flip a pancake required a whole timing and technique, and Mickey was grateful for the quick youtube tutorial he had watched. There were multiple over or undercooked pancakes tossed in the trash as well because that was a whole timing thing too. He was pretty sure that part of what had finally brought everyone out of their rooms was the smell of burning batter. Whatever, he'd figured it out. Although once he'd started, he couldn't stop, and there were about twenty-five perfectly cooked pancakes in the middle of the table and an empty pancake mix bag in the trash next to the ruined tester pancakes. It was a little embarrassing. Also, the smell, combined with his anxiety, was making him mildly nauseous. 

"You can freeze these in ziplock bags, and they reheat in the microwave easily," Angie added; she was darting eyes between him and Svet, clearly feeling the tension. 

"I know how to use the microwave!" Yev chirped in, working on stabbing a bite of pancake on his fork but clearly still listening. He popped a syrupy bite in his mouth, lips and chin glistening with the sugar. He was going to be a mess when he was done. He began chewing with his mouth open.

Svetlana was all over it, "Zhenka, close mouth when eating." This was not the first time he had been told. Yev gave her a mildly mutinous look, closed his mouth, and very deliberately chewed his food.

The moment of reprieve didn't last long. As soon as he was done with that bite, Yev had more to say, "Dad, can we have pancakes every weekend?" He was using a finger to help put a piece of pancake onto his fork, and Mickey had to pick up his own fork to keep from reaching across and just stabbing the pancake for him. According to one of the articles he had read, you shouldn't just step in and do it for them; parents were supposed to let kids work on their _fine motor skills_. It was hard to abide by that guidance at times like this. 

"We'll see." He wasn't about to commit to this disaster every weekend. Although, if he were honest and he wasn't on the verge of being a nervous wreck, it wasn't unpleasant to all sit down around the table. They rarely ate together at the table; it usually was either Svet or him making sure Yev ate something and then grabbing something easy for themselves. A little thought passed through his mind of making pizza with Yev like Ian had fixed for him. He’d bet Yev would love to make food for his mom and Angie.

"I could help!" Yev loudly proclaimed like he could barely contain his excitement at the very thought. Mickey just nodded like it was a possibility and shoved a forkful of the pancake in his mouth he had been cutting up as a way of toying with his food. Once in his mouth, he realized how hungry he was. He hadn't really eaten much with Ian last night and had been too nervous yesterday to eat anything more after the half of a pop tart in the morning. Surprisingly, eating took the edge off his slightly sick feeling, and his hands weren't shaking as much.

Angie thankfully stepped in and occupied Yev chatting about a project he was working on in school so he could choke some food down in relative peace. They were learning about parrots and making construction paper birds. He was pretty stoked about a blue parrot he had made the week before. Without being the center of attention and feeling slightly better, Mickey ate half of the two pancake stack Angie had made up for him and both slices of bacon. He even finished his cold coffee. Yev was still yammering about all of the different facts he knew about parrots when he decided that he would be sick for sure if he ate any more.

Standing up, Mickey rinsed his plate, did the same for Svet and Angie's since they were now done too, and left Yev’s, who was still trying to eat and talk while wrestling bites onto his fork. It appeared, for the most part, like Yev was losing the battle. 

Checking to make sure he had his pack of smokes in his light blue zip-up hoodie pocket, he ducked out onto the fire escape and lit up. It was hard not to think about having a smoke in Ian's apartment last night and all that had happened before and after. The sleeve of his hoodie pulled back from his wrist, and he could see the faintest bruises circling both, likely not noticeable to others. Touching his fingers over the skin and pressing lightly, he felt the very faint ache. He could tell he was smiling just a little, but it dropped when he heard the rattle. Looking over, he could see Angie was coming out to join him. She occasionally did come out for a smoke, so it wasn't entirely unusual, but he had a feeling she had an agenda. Handing over his pack for her to pull one out, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she lit up and took her first drag. She was wearing a velour matching tracksuit in purple that hugged her voluptuous body and managed to look comfortable and stylish.

She didn't wait long, on that first exhale, "How you doing, Mick?" As he opened his mouth to give her a brush off answer, she followed it up with, "And don't bullshit me." 

God, she and Svet were well matched most of the time. Both incredibly direct and perceptive. If only they could figure their own shit out. Svet deserved someone like Angie, who would push through her barriers and make sure she knew she could relax, could trust someone. He knew it was hard for Angie; she wanted to give Svet so much but held back to avoid overwhelming her. It was blatantly obvious to observe, and yet he wasn’t sure how much of that Svet could actually see. 

He just shrugged, looked away, and pulled his lips to the side, trying to weigh out his options. Angie had been good to him, really good to him _considering_. And it was clear she loved Svetlana. Despite their history, he didn't think she had any ill will towards him, and it was less fraught talking to her about this than Svetlana. Plus, she was likely to relay all of it to Svet regardless. Two birds, one stone. 

He took a deep drag and felt the tremble in his hands return slightly as he got ready to say it, the words backed up in his throat, but he pushed them out anyways, "I think," okay he had to restart a little, "I think I'm seeing someone?" It came out as a question. He wasn't really sure if it was true. Wasn't totally sure he wanted it to be true. He had gone last night thinking it would be a fling, a little rendezvous for a few weeks until Gallagher got tired of slumming and moved on. 

He wasn't sure how much he should believe all of the declarations Ian had made last night, but if even half of them were true, he was pretty sure Ian was looking for more than just a series of quick dirty fucks. Although if the promise Ian had made to rim him came through, it seemed the fucking might get a little filthy. Holy fuck, he couldn't think of that, it was so disgraceful, but his hole ached just with the thought. Jesus, the sex was the best Mickey had ever had, better than he could imagine it being, and it just kept getting better. He didn't really want to be hooked, but a sneaking suspicion told him he already was. 

And like a teenager, Angie smacked his arm with, "Really?" She sounded ridiculously excited for him, face open with a huge smile, "That's so great." He just shrugged in response; what was he even supposed to say? "When do we get to meet him?"

What the fuck, Mickey hadn't thought that far ahead. His plan yesterday was to enjoy his time with Ian and keep his worlds separate. Then last night had happened, and he had snuck out in the middle of the night, and he wasn't even sure what any of it meant. He certainly wasn't ready to have them meet each other. Or tell Ian he was married. Or a dad. Shit. Fuck. He **couldn't** be in a relationship. 

Suddenly Angie was in front of him. Somehow he had backed himself into the corner of the fire escape and was pressed up firmly against the exterior of the building. "Mick," said loudly and repeated until Micky could look up. "Hey, it's all right." She didn't touch him, which was good. He couldn't stand being touched when he was wound this tight. Now that he was looking at her, he could see she was breathing in an exaggerated fashion, which his body subconsciously mimicked. The extra oxygen helped push back the dim edges of his vision. He hadn't had a full attack, she had helped head it off, but he was definitely spinning. 

"I," he swallowed, "I can't," oh god, why couldn't he talk? "I can't tell him." Sudden burning in his fingers made him drop the forgotten cigarette which had burned down to the filter and singed him. "Fuck!" What a mess. He was a gooddamn mess.

"Let's slow down here," Angie backed even further out of his space and went over and grabbed the pack of smokes. She pulled out two, lit a fresh one for them both, and passed one to Mickey, who was grateful. The nicotine would help settle his nerves, and it gave him something to do with his hand. He tucked his other arm across his chest, holding himself together. "Let's start at the beginning." She sat on the metal stairs leading to the next floor up as she casually smoked. "What's his name?"

Mickey moved to wedge himself in the other corner, his hips bracketed by the metal but facing Angie. "Ian," He cleared his throat; he sounded froggy, "His name is Ian."

"Nice name," Mickey rolled his eyes; he obviously agreed but it wasn't like Ian likely had any choice over his name. Like he hadn't. He was practically named after a fucking cartoon mouse. He'd had to set a few classmates straight about not making that reference. She obviously saw Mickey's skeptical look and also had heard his rants about his and others' names enough to know his feelings. "Anyways, so you have only seen him a few times?

"Yeah, three times," rolling his eyes, "Well technically, four times." At her raised brow, he relented and gave her the _very_ high-level overview of how they had met, that Ian had taken his very drunk ass home the first night and nothing had happened, but he'd gone back. Then Ian tracked him down last weekend, and despite not planning to see Ian anymore, he'd been convinced to go again last night. 

"Awe, that boy sounds smitten." Oh, maybe he wanted to die and felt himself blush so hard as he scoffed and brushed her words off. Then she got serious, "That bruised cheek from Ian?" He had known the questions would come eventually.

"Kinda." The look on her face made it clear she was going to wait for details. "It was my fault. He was trying to say something important, and I didn't want to hear it." He had planned to stop there, but Angie just kept waiting and made a rolling motion with her hand to prompt him to continue. Fuck it, not like he could really talk to anyone else. "He was trying to let me know he was happy to see me, that I came last night. Hadn't been sure I would show." Could his face possibly be any redder? Gallagher hadn’t been wrong to be concerned; Mickey had nearly turned around a dozen times. "It was too much; he doesn't shut up. He's a real talker, from what I can tell." Snorting, "Not that we have spent a bunch of time talking," Angie snorted too and rolled her eyes; she got the innuendo. "Don't worry, I got him too." It was curious how absent any pride in knocking someone around was; it was unlike other times when he had rumbled with someone, especially one so much larger than him, and had gotten in his licks. He actually felt a little sad that he had hurt Ian. 

"Oh, Mick," And now she was giving him that pitying look he absolutely hated. "You know you don't have to fight everyone anymore, right?" She said it in this pleading tone like she was invested in him getting it. 

It pissed him off a little, like it was the only way he communicated. Like he was Terry. "I fuckin' know, alright." Last deep drag from his cigarette before grinding it out in the ashtray, exhaling the smoke, "I hardly ever fuckin' fight these days. Getting soft." He did worry about that. That when needed, he would be too pussy or out of practice to defend his family. "I don't hit anybody in this household."

"Because I would murder you," Said casually, but Mickey nodded his head in agreement because he knew.

"But I don't even want to." Just the thought of hurting Yev and even Svet made keeping his half-eaten breakfast down a challenge.

Stubbing out the end of her smoke, Angie held up her hands, "You're right, you have done really well." Deep breath in and then out, "I just worry about you, Mick, and I don't like seeing you hurt."

What the hell, "I don't need you to worry about me." He could take care of himself.

Shrug, "I do anyways." Wandering over to the rail and looking down, "You are important to Yev, Lana too, even if she doesn't say it."

Hearing her say it caused a lump to form in his throat, and he just cleared his throat to try and get rid of the sensation.

"You know I asked Lana to move in with me?" And holy shit, that was out of left field. 

All the ways that would change their current routines, routines that worked for him, and then he would have to find somewhere else to live filtered through his mind at warp speed. And he probably wouldn't get to see Yev as often. Probably best for Yev. 

Angie could give stability to Yev like he would never be able to. He would be edged out. 

He had to say something; rubbing his thumb against his nose, he forced himself to say, "Uh no, wasn't aware."

"Yeah, we have been talking about it off and on.” Rolling her eyes at herself, she continued, “Well, really more me talking about it, you know how Lana is. Doesn't like to rely on anyone for anything." Yes, he knew; sometimes he was in awe of what she had made of herself considering what she had come from, "She hasn't agreed, so I have to learn to be patient." They both softly chuckled; Angie was a lot of things, but she wasn't patient by nature. She was scrappy and made shit happen for herself; when she wanted something, she went after it. "But ya know, getting older." She was a few years older than him, so not old, but yeah, life was moving forward. "Last doc appointment, they let me know I probably won't be able to have kids."

Oh shit, Mickey knew she'd been having some issues. He didn't pay much attention, but on their Saturday movie nights, things were referenced, and he knew enough to know she'd been having some medical issues. Knew in an ideal world she had wanted to have kids. Life was so fucked, here he had Yev, whom he loved fiercely but with the childhood he had? He had never wanted kids, Angie wanted kids, and she would have cared for them, provided for them, and now she likely couldn't. He knew that must be painful, "God, Angie, I'm so sorry." He didn't know what else to say.

She just nodded her head, "Yeah, me too." She was a little choked up, her eyes a little wet. She pulled out another smoke and tossed the pack to him. Apparently, this heart-to-heart required chain-smoking. Mick pulled out his own, and they both paused to light up. And exhale. "So ya know, gets me thinking about how big and lonely my house is." After her parents were killed in a car accident when she was nine, she had been raised by her grandmother, and when her grandma passed the last year she was in high school, the house had become hers. No siblings, no extended family. "I have done okay for myself, put myself through college, found quality employment," She worked as a paralegal for one of the big contract firms doing work that sounded boring as fuck. Still, she was apparently good at it, was well respected, and liked. Made sense; Angie was incredibly likable. He nodded along to show he was listening, "But for what?" It was a small wail of confusion and frustration, and it was honestly heartbreaking.

Trying to soothe her, Mickey wondered how he had found himself in this position? He was no good at this, "She'll come around; you know her; it just takes time." Swallowing hard, "And you know Yev loves you." Angie was so good _to_ Yev, good _for_ him. Better than Mickey would ever be, maybe it was for the best. "And ya know," Oh god, he knew it was the right thing, but still it was even more challenging to say than talking about Ian, "When they do finally move in with you, I'll scram." He could do it for Yev, "Make myself scarce so you all can be a happy family." He blinked rapidly; he did **not** need to be emotional about this. It would be good for Svet and Yev, no baggage. Just because it had been different the last year and a half and he'd really tried to bond with Yev, and he thought he had done relatively well, that didn't mean he needed to stay; he didn't need to drag them down.

"Jesus fuck, Mickey!" Her screech was so unexpected that it startled the shit out of him and he turned to look at her. She seemed so pissed all of a sudden. Gone was the sad and sullen look. "You are part of this family," said so fiercely there wasn't really room to argue, "You would have a place in my home, and even if you choose not to live there, you have a place in our lives." She was really intense when she was this worked up, and Mickey was in shocked awe, could see why she probably had all the lawyers she worked with a little intimidated. "You are Yev's father, whom he loves deeply, numbnuts, in case you weren't aware," He knew but kind of figured with time he would forget, those feelings would fade, "And Lana, even if she doesn't always show it, loves you too in her own stoic eastern bloc way." That was all remarkably touching, and Mickey wasn't sure what to do with it all. It was the second declaration in less than twenty-four hours of someone who wanted to keep him in their life; what the fuck was the world coming to?

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to say something. He needn't worry about it because Angie was on a roll and continued while puffing on the last of her cigarette, "I was telling you, so you were aware it's something I am going to keep talking with Lana about." Mirthless chuckle, "You two aren't all that different, ya know?" She just shook her head at Mickey's raised brows, "You both think you are so unlovable because of your history. Shitty childhoods and life circumstances mean you both did things you're ashamed of," Before Mickey could open his mouth to protest that Svet had done nothing to be ashamed of, "Not that I think either of you should feel ashamed." Well, that was overly broad. "You both did what you had to do to survive. You are both here, alive and well.” She had stepped close and was pointing a menacing finger at his chest, “That's all that fucking matters," her threat was undermined by the fact that she was nearly crying again, "You hear me?"

He just mutely nodded his head because what was he supposed to say to any of that?

She sniffed loudly, really unattractively from Mickey's perspective, wiped her eyes, and then asked, "And who the fuck uses the word scram, anyway? Are you an actual grandpa?" 

They both laughed, and it was like his chest cracked open, and some of the self-hatred that lived inside him and loathing at everything he had ever done in his miserable life could seep out. There was plenty more to keep him going, but a little of the pressure was off. 

"So what are you going to do about Ian," God she was like a dog with a bone, and he thought maybe he loved her a little for it, "You can't be hitting on each other, but I assume you know that," he acknowledged that with a head tilt, "But you really like him, right?"

Face flaming, so much to admit to so early in the day. He ran his hand along the back of his neckline, looking sideways, quietly, "Yeah. I really do."

"Okay, then start slow." He snorted at that, so far, most of what they had were some satisfying fucks, and some heated energy they both appeared to want to explore, but they had been on fast forward since the beginning. Angie rolled her eyes, understanding what he was thinking, "Slow at the emotional stuff, opening up. The right time will come up to tell him about Lana and Yev, don't wait too long, but you don't owe him that yet either." Coming up beside him and knocking shoulders together affectionately, "If he's as good of a guy as you say, he'll stick around to listen and will come to understand." She had an awful lot of faith in Ian. Somewhere in his chest, maybe where some of the self-loathing had seeped out, a little tender seed of hope sprouted; Mickey knew it was going to require nurturing.

She stepped back, was getting ready to duck back through the window, "And Mick," He looked over his shoulder, "That shit that happened earlier, the panic attack?” Goddamn, she was just full of sensitive topics he liked to ignore, but apparently, she had decided she wasn’t going to let any of them slide today. When she waited for him to give it credence, he did by rolling his eyes because, yes, of course, he knew what she was talking about, “There’s medicine to help with that. You should talk to someone, get some help.” He just rolled his eyes again and turned away. Enough was enough.

She just kept talking at his back, “Lana and I are taking Yev to get some new school clothes. He's growing like a weed. I will bring him back this evening after we have a bite to eat and drop Lana off for her night shift." He lifted his hand in acknowledgment, waiting for her to leave. “One last thing, and then I really will leave you alone,” he finally turned around, so maybe she would give him some fucking peace, "Get some rest; you look exhausted as shit." Before he could even make a sarcastic response, she had ducked inside.

Her calling it out seemed to give his body and brain permission to bombard him with exactly how exhausted he was. Early this morning, he had come home, showered, laid down on the couch, and because his mind wouldn't calm, had gotten up to tidy different parts of the apartment quietly. When the sun had started shining, he had started cooking breakfast. He was also emotionally tapped out. When he took another bracing breath of the cold fall air, and it didn’t revive any of his energy, he decided to go inside and follow her direction.

When he popped back in, Angie came out of the bathroom where she had clearly brushed her teeth after changing into clothes suitable for their outing. Svet and Yev were already ready, and the last of the dishes had been taken care of, the table wiped down of any syrup Yev had likely gotten all over. Nothing left to distract him from getting some sleep.

Coming to stand in front of him, arms crossed in her most implacable, don’t fuck with me look, yet when Svet's spoke her tone was soft, "Just changed sheets, you sleep in my bed today, Misha" The affectionate use of his name in Russian filled his chest with gentle warmth. And While Mickey didn't mind sleeping on the couch, a nap in a bed sounded so comforting he didn’t put up even token resistance. 

He rolled his eyes but agreed, "Yeah, fine, okay, whatever."

"I work until ten tonight; Angie brings Zheyna back around five. Call if you need anything while I am out." Back to her regular stern tone.

Mickey just nodded his head, waiting for them to exit. His eyes were drooping. Now that he had decided to sleep, he barely made it to the bed and toed off his slippers before crashing out on top of the freshly made bed.

***

Mickey woke up late in the afternoon before Yev had been dropped off by Angie feeling at least somewhat rested; his head was clearer. He stumbled his way groggily to the bathroom to urgently piss and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His stomach growled, which was great since he hadn’t been hungry much lately and had eaten only half his breakfast that morning. He went into the kitchen, downed a full glass of water from the tap, and dug out a few Hot Pockets from the freezer. He had to move multiple ziplock bags full of pancakes around to even get to the Hot Pockets. Fucking pancakes.

While his dinner was cooking, he went out to the fire escape, sat on the metal stairs, and lit up. He pulled out his phone, checked for any missed messages, and found he had a bunch of them. He held off looking at the one from Ian, but he had a bunch from Iggy, a few from Mandy, and one from Angie.

He checked Angie’s first, and she was just confirming she would bring Yev home in a half-hour; sent about five minutes before. Perfect timing. Yev would have been fed, he could take a quick bath or shower, and they could play a few video games before bed. Sunday evenings weren’t as sacred as Saturday mornings, but he still enjoyed their time together. He mentally crossed his fingers that getting Yev to take a shower wasn’t the battle it always seemed to turn into between the two of them on Sunday evenings. He thought about how even simple things like their Sunday evening routine would change when they didn’t live together because, really, he couldn’t live with Angie. That would be too weird, right?

Mandy’s text messages mostly asked him what he was doing in her cryptic, nagging sisterly way and letting him know that Iggy was looking for him. He just sent back a middle finger emoji, confirmed he was fine and would get in touch with Iggy.

He actually had several missed calls from Iggy and a flurry of text messages asking if he was there, if he could talk. Finally, he asked Mick to meet him at 4 PM at a coffee bar, whatever the fuck that was, in the gentrified part of the South Side on Wednesday. The location was halfway between the warehouse and getting to Yev’s school, so there wasn’t a good reason not to agree. Although he wondered why Iggy was reaching out since they rarely spoke, he figured if Iggy thought it could wait till Wednesday, he did too. 

Who knew where Iggy was staying, with Terry or some other flophouse. He was fairly transient, and when things got dicey at the house, he had always been good at ducking out and finding a couch to surf on. Since he was notoriously unreliable on runs and had only ever been good at pushing weed, his drug of choice, he wasn’t one that Terry really relied on heavily to run his illicit business. That responsibility had fallen more heavily to Colin, Mickey, and various Milkovich cousins who were frequently around if they weren't doing their own stints in the slammer. He worried if Iggy was at the Milkovich house these days, who knew how violent and hair-trigger Terry’s temper could be. He just sent back a confirmation he would be there on Wednesday and got a thumbs-up response right away.

Bracing himself and stubbing out his smoke, he opened the messages from Ian. He figured Ian might be done with him, given the way he had scurried out ( _again_ ) in the middle of the night. It made his gut ache thinking of it, but he also thought maybe it would be easier. He was surprised to realize that perhaps he wanted something _complicated_ if it involved Ian. The redhead was getting under his skin. What could he do?

* * *

**(Ian) 10:47 AM:** Mickey, I was bummed not to wake up with you this morning. You think next time I might get to? 🙃

* * *

Just that, nothing further. Which somehow both felt like pressure and an open invitation. Mickey could acknowledge if only to himself, he wanted that. Wanted to sleep next to Ian. Maybe wake up next to him. Have breakfast like Ian had fixed the morning he had accidentally stayed the full night but this time, enjoy it without the anxiety eating into the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if he would get to have that, most certainly didn’t deserve it, but he was going to try. Yeah, he had freaked out last night, but he would keep making space for this for as long as Ian wanted it. He was going to try not to be such a fucking pussy about it.

Thinking about how to respond and what was ahead for the week, he went back inside the apartment, pulled out his Hot Pockets, put them on a plate, and grabbed a coke from the fridge. He took his phone and food into the living room to sit on the couch, cross-legged with his plate on his lap. He clicked over to Ian’s picture just to look at him for a minute, then felt stupid for sitting by himself in the apartment, acting all gaga over a _guy_. He took a bite of his Hot Pockets and promptly burnt his mouth. What the fuck, how could Hot Pockets be scalding around the edges and still cold in the middle? One of life's mysteries. Setting aside his dinner, he got down to business. What was that shit they say? Lean in; that’s what he was going to do. Lean in. 

* * *

**(Mickey) 5:17** PM: Yeah probably

* * *

**(Ian) 5:17 PM:** Did Mickey Milkovich just agree to come for a sleepover? 😎

* * *

God, could he blush any harder? This was so juvenile. A fuckin’ sleepover? Really.

* * *

**(Mickey) 5:18 PM:** Fuck you is what I agreed to

* * *

Ian obviously had no chill as he bounced right back.

* * *

**(Ian) 5:18 PM:** That’s not off the table…

* * *

**(Mickey) 5:19 PM:** Whatever. If I wanted to top I would have stayed in prison

* * *

Oh god, was he flirting? This was so awkward. He needed to wrap this up, Yev was going to be home and he absolutely was not going to have this kind of weird exchange with Ian while sitting next to Yev. No, thank you. How embarrassing to even be texting about this stuff while alone in the apartment, even if it wasn’t like Ian didn’t know what his preference was. And yea, topping wasn't really his jam but seeing as how everything had been so hot with Gallagher, maybe at some point, he would consider it. Just not fucking some random fellow convict in the last stall of the prison showers using government issue shampoo for lube would probably improve the experience. 

* * *

**(Ian) 5:20 PM:** Okay, Tough Guy. So next Saturday?

* * *

Suddenly six days away felt like a _really_ long time.

* * *

**(Mickey) 5:21 PM:** Yeah

* * *

**Ian: 5:21 PM:** 👍

* * *

And ya know, whatever. Six days was whatever. It was fine, he would see Ian next weekend, and that would be soon enough. He had shit to do; he had a life. Kind of.

Soon after, Yev came home with several bags of new clothes, which he tossed casually in his room. Mickey figured he should make him put his clothes away but decided he could address that later. Or Svet could. Yev was cranky, likely because he was tired, and instead, they were engaged in a battle of wills about him taking a shower. It put Mickey on edge, trying to deal with a moody Yev on his own. If his father had cared if he was clean, which he hadn’t, he would have never engaged in a cajoling conversation. 

“I don’t want to take a shower, I don’t want my hair wet, I'm busy.” The last said with so much venom that Mickey clenched his fists at the tone. Yev had decided tonight he was _very_ interested in games _other_ than Street Fighter. He was reviewing the slim selection with extreme diligence as though it was the most fascinating thing. 

“Yev, we have been through this.” They had some version of this discussion most Sunday evenings when Mickey was tasked with ensuring Yev was clean. Yev rarely gave Svet an attitude about it, and somehow, she could just give him a look, and he might sigh dramatically, but he always went and did it. “Go take a shower, and then we can play a few rounds of whatever game you want.”

“I want to look at the games and decide.” He continued to go through the short stack of video games, sorting them into two piles and altogether ignoring the direction to take a shower. 

“Okay, whatever game you want to play.” Deep breath in, trying to maintain patience. “But after your shower.” 

“In a minute.” Said very loudly and **so** dismissively.

Nope, no. Mickey would not lose his patience over his kid taking a fucking shower and being a little shit. Swooping in and gathering up the games, he marched into the kitchen and put the stack on top of the fridge. Turning around, he got to see Yev literally have his jaw dropped in shock at Mickey’s actions.

“Dad, I was looking at those!” Yev was way louder than necessary in the small apartment.

Mickey crossed his arms, held onto his sides to keep his hands occupied. He did not want to hit Yev, but it never hurt to have his hands gripping something, even if it was himself. “Take a shower, and I will give them back.” 

“I don’t want to!” Wow, his kid had a set of lungs that could bellow.

“Don’t care.” Why was this even an argument? His dad would have knocked him into next week if he gave even half of the attitude Yev was giving him. “Go.” Breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, he tried to unclench his jaw. He needed to loosen up, and while he wanted Yev to take a shower, he reminded himself it wasn’t the end of the world if he didn’t. Still, he wasn’t going to cave that easily. “Take a shower, Dennis the Menace, and stop busting my balls, then we can play some video games.”

To his surprise, Yev had reached the end of his patience with being nagged and gave in with a huge sigh and a pissy look thrown at Mickey as he yelled, “Fine.”

Mickey stayed rooted in the kitchen. He didn’t need to be near Yev when he was feeling this tense. He watched as Yev marched into the bathroom and shut the door much harder than required after giving Mickey one last glare. Wait, no, he opened the door to mean mug him once more for good measure and then shut the door again. 

Letting go of his own shirt he was gripping tightly and unwinding his arms, Mickey took a moment to lean on the counter and breath. How was he going to survive Yev’s teenage years? He typically reminded Yev to be sure to rinse out all the shampoo but decided he was going to leave it tonight; something was better than nothing.

Stepping out for a smoke, Mickey googled “How the fuck to make your kid take a shower” and skimmed some of the results and advice. More talking, why did every issue in Mickey’s life require more talking? Sighing as dramatically as Yev ever thought of doing, he stubbed out his smoke when he heard the shower cut off as Yev finished his extra quick shower. Going in and tapping on the door, he reminded him to rinse his hair anyway. He managed not to snicker too loudly when he heard the water turn back on since Yev had obviously forgotten.

He pulled down the video games and put them on the coffee table, hoping they could wind down the rest of their evening together in peace. Thinking about the conversation he was going to try to have with Yev about his “ _shower hygiene_ ” so they could work through his “ _shower resistance_ ” **together** , he maturely refrained from rolling his eyes and went back into the kitchen. When he was a kid, nobody gave a shit if he showered. Which. Actually. That was kind of the issue he wanted to address. In “ _kid-friendly_ ” language, of course. So many things to remember when trying to be a quality parent; it’s no wonder Terry had never tried. He pulled out a saucepan and put on some water to heat while pulling down two packets of hot chocolate. He had seen Svet make the kid hot chocolate before when he was upset and figured it couldn’t hurt. 

A few minutes later, Yev wandered into the living room in his batman pajamas after having dried off, Mickey’s sure his wet towel was on the floor instead of hanging up on the hook where it was supposed to be, but that was a battle for a different night. Their little power struggle seemed to be forgotten as his face lit up when he saw the mugs of hot chocolate. He made an “Mmmm” sound and said, “Gimme” complete with joking grabby hands and a grin. He slurped a sip and exaggeratedly smacked his lips, saying, “Thanks, Dad,” all the while messing with the controller and getting them set up to play games. 

Setting down his own mug and rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans, Mickey cleared his throat and prepared to have what he hoped was a short conversation, “Hey, Yev.” Yev must have realized something was different by the tone because he looked back askance, and Mickey patted the seat next to him, “Mind coming up here so we can talk for a minute?”

“Sure,” and he did as asked and moved up to the couch to sit next to Mickey.

And they just sat there for a minute while Mickey tried to figure out what exactly to say. He wasn’t sure if Yev felt it, but it was so awkward, he could feel his face heating the longer he dithered around and didn’t just talk. Finally, taking a breath, he got something out, “Why don’t you want to take a shower, man?” Clearing his throat, he tried to be more precise like the articles had advised, “What don’t you like specifically?”

Maybe because Mickey's tone was serious, Yev seemed to actually think about it first, his little brow wrinkling. “It’s just so boring,” drawing out the o and wilting back into the couch like he was being put upon by the whole experience of showering, but he added, “And I don’t like water in my face.” His face transformed into a grimace just thinking about it. 

Okay, maybe he could work through this with Yev after all, “Do you know why it’s important to take a bath or shower regularly?”

“Because being dirty is gross?” Said like that was the obvious answer.

“Yeah, and you don’t want kids to make fun of you for it.” Yev was so sensitive, he didn’t think he would handle it well.

“That would be bullying and I would report it to the teacher.” That answer seemed evident to Yev.

It also wasn’t really making the impact Mickey was looking for, “Yeah, okay, but also you could just take a shower when asked, and it wouldn’t be a thing.”

“But I just wanted to play video games,” Yev was starting to dig in his heels, and his tone was going whiney.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey tried a different tactic, “You know when I was a kid I didn’t have to take a bath or a shower very often.”

Yev looked over at him with a suspicious squint, waiting for more details.

“We didn’t always have running water, but even if we did, my parents didn’t really care.” Looking at Yev’s face, it was hard to imagine not caring about him the same way his parents hadn’t cared about himself or his siblings. Even his mom, who had sometimes been soft and warm, had been mean and callous when she needed a fix. The most he could hope from Terry was to not be noticed, and when his parents were partying together, nothing else had mattered. Not the water being off, not food in the cupboards, certainly not clean clothes and showers. 

His mom would eventually run off, and Terry would come out of the haze and get the water turned back on, do a couple of drug or munition runs, and there would be a little more food in the house than just what could be stolen by the Milkovich children. It never lasted, his mom would turn back up, and there would be a knockdown drag-out between the two adults while the kids hid in closets, under beds, or just plain got outdoors depending on the weather to avoid being there for the bloody battle. The cycle would then start over with weeks of a honeymoon period making up and being consumed with each other. Sometimes weeks would turn into months, and there would be the occasional meal to sit down to, but it seemed as the kids got older that was rarer and rarer and his mom being absent were for longer and longer periods until she just didn’t show up anymore. When Terry was put away when they were kids, she would often show up to keep them from getting placed in the system, or an uncle would step in. There were a few times, though, when there hadn’t been a safety net.

He got notice while he was in prison that his mom had passed, overdosed, apparently living in Detroit. The last time he’d seen Laura Milkovich was when he was sixteen. Trying not to dwell on those memories, Mickey continued, “Nobody made sure we were clean or cared that we looked dirty or smelled.”

Yev looked a little upset by the concept while also trying to figure out what Mickey’s angle was. Smart kid.

“Your mom and I only bug you about taking a shower because we don’t want you to get teased by other kids.” Kids had been brutal, and although Mickey had cultivated a not giving a fuck attitude, it didn’t mean some of that didn’t slip below his armor. Getting lice repeatedly in the fifth grade solidified his reputation as dirty; even the teachers shied away from touching him. Which was fine. He didn’t need their stupid fake affectionate pats on the shoulder anyway. 

Mandy had shaved all of their heads for them, and they had worked together to wash sheets and clothes at the laundromat when they were sent home with a letter threatening to call child protective services if they didn’t stop having outbreaks. Their few rotations in the foster care system had been enough; when needed, they would work together to stay out if they could. Mandy had cut her hair to shoulder length, and Mickey had sat on her stripped bed and gone through her hair with the very tiny comb pulling out nits. In a totally fucked up way, it had been a weird bonding experience with all four kids. 

“Other kids teased you?” Yev was so indignant on his behalf.

“Yeah, but that’s not the point. I just want to know why it’s always a big deal to take a shower.” Leaning forward, Mickey took a sip of his hot chocolate, trying to get his head in the game.

“Did you tell a teacher?” Now Yev was fully facing him.

“What?” Mickey was confused about what they were even talking about now.

“Did you tell a teacher about the kids being mean to you? Did they call you names?” He was leaning forward with a very intense gaze, and Mickey suddenly felt like a bug under glass.

“What?” How did this conversation keep going so far off track? “No, I didn’t fucking tell the teachers. It didn’t matter.” Oh my god, this is why Svet should handle these conversations. “I knew how to handle my business if I needed to.” Deep breath, stay focused. “I just don’t want to have this fight with you every Sunday over a shower; that’s what this conversation is about.”

“How did you handle your business if you didn’t tell the teacher.” His little eyes felt like they were boring holes in Mickey.

And good god, not something he wanted to talk about. “Doesn’t matter. Can we agree that you don’t throw a fit when I ask you to take a shower?”

“I don’t like getting my face wet.” He could switch topics with lightning speed.

“Then don’t.” His retort was quick, but he wasn't sure if that was the right answer and fumbled a bit, “Put the water in your hand and bring it to your face, so you don’t stick your face in the water stream.”

“Do you wash your face in the shower?” Yev seemed curious all of a sudden about Mickey’s shower routine.

“Yes?” Mickey said it like a question. He probably wasn’t as diligent as he should be.

“Did they call you names?” He was hung up on this point.

“Yeah, probably,” Realizing he was going to get more inquiries on that front if he didn’t shut it down, he attempted to, “I don’t really remember.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Okay?” He felt so far out of his depth.

“Okay, I will try not to get upset when you ask me to shower.” Yev clarified.

“Oh, okay.” He was suddenly at a loss with the turn of the conversation. “Cool.”

“I am sorry kids made fun of you, and you didn’t have a teacher to tell that you were being bullied.” Yev went on, reaching up and patting Mickey on the shoulder.

“Yeah, no worries, Kid.” He didn’t think it would be helpful to clarify that the Milkoviches had probably been some of the biggest bullies. 

“Do you think you could teach me how to handle my business?” Big eyes looking at him. Mickey was pretty sure Yev didn’t fully understand what that meant but knew enough to know it was a little bit scandalous.

“Eh, no need to worry about that now. You have a problem, you let me know.” Even bigger eyes, “Or your teacher.” He was scrambling, “Sounds like your teachers know about how to handle those situations too.” It’s not like he could beat up little kids. “Alright, enough of this. Drink your hot chocolate.”

Yev turned back right away like he was discovering it for the first time, clearly having forgotten it in their discussion. 

“Oh yeah!” After taking another over the top slurp he was sure Svet would have scolded him for, Yev picked up the controller again, “Ready to play?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s play.”

After Mickey had his ass thoroughly handed to him by Yev a few too many times, they called it quits. Yev’s eyes were beginning to glaze with tiredness, and Mickey helped him get ready for bed with their established routine. Yev brushed his teeth and then crawled under the covers. As predicted, the wet towel was on the floor, and Mickey picked it up without a fuss, attempting to coast to the end of the evening without conflict. Then he settled in and read Yev a chapter of The Boxcar Children series he was hooked on, and he was basically asleep by the end. It was all disgustingly domestic, and Mickey tried not to dwell on how much he actually enjoyed the whole routine and how much it helped him feel a little bit less like a loser. 

An hour later, after he had puttered around the apartment doing some minor cleaning up and straightening, he heard Svet come through the front door. She looked exhausted even though this was one of her shorter shifts; however, she had been out of the house most of the day. She gave him a head nod of acknowledgment, then went and slouched back against the couch with a sigh after removing her shoes. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, he went in and handed one over before sitting on the other end of the couch. Popping the top on his own, he took a long drink.

“Yev asleep?” Svet asked after cracking hers open and taking a sip. She rolled her head to the side, so she could look at him without moving her head from resting on the back of the couch.

“Yeah, out like a light.” He could tell he was smiling fondly. He really did like the little dude. 

“He clean up before bed?” Svet asked roughly the same questions each Sunday evening.

Mickey nodded his head yes and let her know about their talk, “Did some googling and decided to have a conversation with him about why he flips the fuck out every time I ask him to shower.” The struggle was well known.

Svet just snorted and asked, “how did it go?”

He just shrugged, “I think okay,” Took another sip, “He agreed to _try_ and not have an attitude the next time I ask him.” Both Svet and Mickey chuckled quietly at that commitment. They likely had similar reasonably low expectations of their seven-year-old son. 

“So you are seeing someone?” She inquired with a lifted brow.

And Mickey had known she would know and probably ask. That’s why he had told Angie. It was still hard for him to get his words out, but he reminded himself she had been on his side for a long time now. Even when they had been running the Rub and Tug together, they had a strong partnership. “Yeah,” taking a sip, more for something to do than because he was thirsty, “I think so.”

“Good,” she took a long pause like she wasn’t sure how to talk either, “I am glad for you.”

There was probably so much more they should say, but they both just sat there for a few moments, sipping beer and feeling out the silence that wasn’t wholly uncomfortable but still had some tension. Finally, Mickey broke it, “So you might move in with Angie?”

A way too casual shrug, like it wasn’t significant. He may not know all the things that made Svet tick, but he knew for sure she wouldn’t be casual about this kind of decision. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” She was looking away now, very focused across the room. “It is family decision. You and Yev need to use voice to say what you want.” When she was stressed, her English became slightly more stilted. 

Mickey felt his throat close up a little at her including him as part of their family. He frequently felt on the outside of the family bubble, both with his own siblings and with Svet, Yev, and whatever they were creating with Angie. Some of that he knew was because he held himself back. Didn’t always know where and when to engage. Some of that was because he felt like he should play a cameo in Yev’s life, ready to fall back when something better for all of them came along. 

However, when he thought about it, Svet hadn’t ever treated him that way since they had gotten stable. After Yev was born and they had started working _together_ instead of against each other, she had latched onto that stability and never let go. The fact that she saw stability in him was always a wonder. Even when he was in prison, she had brought Yev to see him nearly every Sunday during visiting hours, so even though it was behind glass and awkward, stiff conversations on phones, he got to see them. If he was honest, sometimes that was all that got him through, and he too craved that stability she had in turn created for him. Even when he was confused about what to do with any of it. 

Moving in with Angie would represent a considerable transition, putting one more giant step between her rough past and future potential for happiness and satisfaction. Five years ago, all of this would have seemed like a pipe dream. He also knew she genuinely cared for Angie, probably loved her even. He didn’t see how he could do anything but support that and in some small way seeing her try to grasp for something more nurtured the tiny seed of hope he was protecting in his chest. If she could have this, a former whore, then maybe even **he** could have something even though he was a degenerate and a thug. 

“Fuck Svet, you should do it.” They didn’t really do mushy declarations but felt compelled to add, “She fuckin’ loves you, you _know_ that.”

Huge sigh, “Yeah,” it was an acknowledgment, but she said it like she was totally bewildered by that likely reality. They both drained the last of their beer, and Svet took them to the sink without saying anything further. He watched her peek in to check on Yev before closing his door and turning back to him, ready to slip into her room. “Night, piece-of-shit husband.” Said in a soft, teasing tone.

“Night, hand whore.” Some things hadn’t changed over time. Mickey pulled out his blankets and laid back on the couch. He tried to get his mind to go blank so he could go to sleep, but all he kept seeing were images of Ian. Having a smoke with him, eating pizza, laughing about his shoulder tattoo. Hearing those words whispered in his ear about safety and being free. It took him a while to drift off.

***

Looking out the window of the L, Mickey could see his reflection, the stupid goofy grin on his face. He could feel the giddy jitters he had that weren’t tempered by the nervousness of meeting up with Iggy in a few. Ian had been able to time their lunch breaks together, and he and his partner Sue had parked their rig near the back dock where Mickey typically took his break. It had taken a flurry of texts to coordinate, and at first, Mickey had been a little paranoid and concerned. Wondering what Ian thought would happen at his place of work, how they would behave. 

Some could have looked at their lunch together and thought it was anticlimactic, but it was perfect for Mickey. On a personal call, Sue had stayed in the rig, although Ian had done a quick introduction of Mickey to her as his friend at the end of their time together. Even the generic label of "friend" had made his cheeks warm a little.

They had literally just sat on the steps up to the loading dock, different steps even, not touching. Ian had given Mcieky half of his ham and cheese sandwich in exchange for half of Mickey’s PB&J. Ian had talked about how his morning had gone so far transporting an elderly patient to the hospital and then a kid Yev’s age who had gone into anaphylactic shock. Mickey had caught him up on warehouse drama, including that whoever had been stealing his Jello had mysteriously stopped. When he offered Ian his green Jello, he had declined with a smirk on his face.

And at the very end, as he stood, collecting his trash into his paper bag, he clasped Mickey’s shoulder for just a second longer than was platonically acceptable. It was the only contact he had made, and it honest to god made Mickey shiver. He had been yearning for him to make contact while being eternally grateful that he kept his distance. “See you Saturday?”

And Jesus Christ, his face was so red, and he had to look away, but he just nodded his head and confirmed, “Yeah. Yup,” He sounded ridiculous, “I’ll be there.”

The huge smile on Ian’s face was worth it, even sounding dopey and tripping all over his own words. 

So he was seeing Ian on Saturday, and this, whatever _this_ was, continued. Amazingly, it was still happening. 

Seeing the stop where he would get off the L, he made his way toward the sliding door, taking a deep breath in and out to help calm himself, help give his face something to do other than grinning like a loon. Getting to the bottom of the steps off the L platform, he lit up a smoke as he made his way toward the address Iggy had given him. 

The short brisk walk helped get his head out of the clouds. It was heading into October, and he was going to need to pull out his winter jacket and scarf soon. He was glad he had grabbed gloves this morning. A few minutes later, he ground the butt out under his boot as he opened the door to the trendy little hipster hangout. Mickey didn’t even try to stop the eye roll, fuckin’ gentrifiers. He wondered why Iggy would choose this bougie place to meet. It was ironic to be meeting him here given that, during a coke-fueled escapade, they had shot up a similar storefront back in the day. 

Then he literally stopped in his tracks when he looked up and saw Iggy. Behind the counter. With a goddamn turquoise apron on, smiling at a customer. That he worked here had been so far down on the list of possibilities for the reason they were meeting here that it hadn’t even really been on the list at all. Looking up Iggy spotted him and grinned, clearly seeing he was shocked. He motioned to a table for Mickey to sit at and said he’d be over in a few. 

Mickey sat at the table and watched in amazement and horror as Iggy fiddled around with the knobs and handles on the giant teal and chrome machine where he appeared to be competently making some kind of fagacino. With a small stainless steel pitcher full of what he assumed was frothed cream or milk, he made a series of pours and fiddled with a little tool. Telling his coworker he was taking his break, he brought the two cups of coffee over and set one down in front of Mickey with a flourish while he kept the other for himself.

Holy fuck. Mickey’s had a little bear face artistically drawn with the foam, and looking over at the cup Iggy had kept for himself had some sort of elaborate flower. What a goddamn disgrace to the Milkovich name they both were, albeit for different reasons.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey whispered while motioning to the cup in abject dismay. 

“Fuck you,” Iggy's face that had been so open with delight shuttered a little. “Drink it; it tastes good.” Iggy took the small spoon on the saucer his little cup was sitting on and stirred the design into the coffee so it disappeared.

And abruptly, Mickey felt like shit. He’d seen Yev’s face do the same when he inadvertently shut him down about something he was excited about. He tried to backpedal, get his foot out of his mouth, but he wasn’t very smooth. “Nah, sorry, man.” Fuck, what do you say to your grown-ass brother when he makes you coffee art or whatever the fuck this is? “Shit, it’s really cool, Igs.”

The nickname made Iggy smile just a bit, but he still shrugged it off, “Yeah, it’s no big deal, just something stupid this place makes us do for our cappuccinos.”

God, he was an asshole, but he still didn’t understand what was going on. “What are you doing here? You work here now?”

Another dismissive shrug, “Yeah, been actually working here off and on for a few years.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Well, actually, Mickey didn’t really need a response to **that** , given how he had just reacted when Iggy showed him what he was doing. 

“Eh, never really came up.” He knew Iggy caught his rolled eyes, “Besides, I don’t want Dad knowing I work here.” Iggy dramatically shivered, but it didn’t make it any less true when he said, “Can you even imagine?”

“Fuck.” The sip of coffee in his stomach turned a bit sour; he knew what Terry got like when the Milkovich boys didn’t live up to what it meant to be Milkovich Men. Iggy had been right to keep something like this a secret. He just nodded in agreement. “You ever worry about anyone in his network finding you here and ratting you out?”

“Nah man, what network?” Iggy was scoffing and looking around like that was an absurd question.

“What network? What do you mean?” Mickey hadn’t spent a lot of time around Iggy since he had been out, but he usually could follow the bouncing ball about what was real and what wasn’t, “You know Terry keeps a bead on what’s happening in the Back of the Yards.”

“Not like he used to.” Iggy said it with clear-eyed certainty, “Most of them are either serving time, dead or disappeared.” Taking another sip, “Things aren’t the way they were back in the day; power players are changing, and Terry isn’t one of them.”

Mickey had been so heads down during his parole and avoiding Terry that he hadn’t really paid attention. Yeah, he had noticed the neighborhoods were changing, the influx of middle-class white people and pride flags popping up everywhere along with other virtue-signaling propaganda. Their old area still had pockets though of people who were poor as shit, barely holding on but staunchly resisting being edged out as well. It was like now that Iggy had pointed it out, he could see the picture more clearly, “Oh shit, you’re right.” He just shook his head and took a sip of his coffee, which was pretty tasty even if he wasn’t going to say anything at this point and risk sticking his foot any further down his goddamn throat.

“Okay, so no Terry stronghold,” and as he said it, he really looked at Iggy. He looked healthy and present, not drugged out and checked out. If he was honest, Mickey wasn’t sure he could ever remember seeing him look as aware as he did since they were kids. “And shit, you aren’t high, are you?” He couldn’t help the accusatory tone, but some things were supposed to stay the same. Iggy being a complete stoner, was one of them. Now he was holding down a legit job, and at least this afternoon, he appeared to be sober.

Iggy just laughed at his question, “Nope, right now I’m not high; talk to me in about three hours when I am done with my shift, and I will be higher than giraffes pussy.” 

Which made Mickey laugh in relief; at least some things were the same. Sorta. Feeling his stomach relax a bit, he took another sip of the coffee. It really was quite good. Sniffing his nose and nervously rubbing it with his index finger, wanting to know why Iggy had been insistent on a meeting when they would go months without contact, “So this what you wanted me to meet you here for? To show me your coffee art or whatever the fuck this is?”

“Can’t I just want to see my little bro?” Said like that wasn't the most absurd statement ever. They hadn’t ever really been close; everyone mostly just focused on trying to keep themselves safe, rarely able to help their siblings _stay_ safe. They had failed each other in that way, and all three of the brothers had failed Mandy. Just the thought of it, and he set down his coffee mug again; if he drank any more, he was going to lose his lunch for sure. 

“No, we both know that’s not it.” But maybe it could be, perhaps they could build something they didn’t have when they were younger. Perhaps it would be too strange and too late.

Iggy finally decided to stop playing coy, “No, you’re right. I wanted to talk to you about Terry and figured it was better to do it face to face.” Leaning forward a little, he spoke quietly, “Nobody to listen in on calls.”

And what the fuck was that supposed to mean? The cops didn’t waste resources listening to phone calls of petty criminals. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey was going to lose his goddamn patience real quick. He still had to go pick up Yev in a little bit, and he wasn’t interested in playing some weird cryptic mind game with Iggy.

“You talk to Dad recently?” At Mickey’s acknowledgment that he had, in fact, spoken to him recently, Iggy went on, “So you know he’s even more off his rocker than normal?” Mickey nodded, “I think he’s in some bad shit to make money.”

“He asked me to go on a run with him.” Rubbing his nose in indecision, he decided to tell Iggy the full deal, “said no, couldn’t.” Clearing his throat, not like Iggy wasn't doing the same thing, kinda, “Trying to go straight.” He waited for Iggy to laugh at him for even trying.

It didn’t come; when he looked at him, Iggy was just nodding, like it wasn’t a stupid impossibility. 

“It’s not easy man, the only thing I push these days is a little weed on the side. Not enough to get me any real time if I got caught, plus the cops barely care about pot anymore.” Iggy had never been the big drug dealer, and it sounded like these days, he was barely even dipping his toes in. He continued, “You were in prison, now Colin is awaiting trial, and somewhere in there, Terry lost his grip on the neighborhood and the areas we used to run. New people with bigger operations have edged him out. It happened a little at a time, and I don’t think he realized how much territory he had given up until it was too late.” Iggy drank the last of his coffee in a single swallow and set his cup in its saucer a little too forcefully.

“Fuck, man, I haven’t been keeping up.” Mickey similarly finally could finish the dainty cup of coffee, “I just assumed Terry got new runners when I went to prison and now with Colin gone.”

“You know that arrogant SOB, he wanted to do it on his own and keep a higher profit, but he couldn’t be everywhere all the time. He’s been off his game, drinking too much, snorting the product for a while now.”

“Shit, he’s gonna lose the house if he can’t get together the money for the back taxes.” Terry Milkovich’s identity was caught up in that house; it was hard to say how he would react if he lost it, but Mickey couldn’t imagine it would be good.

“I don’t give a fuck if I never step back in that shit hole again.” Said with barely controlled anger.

It was weird for Mickey to see; of all the Milkovich men, Iggy was generally the most happy go lucky. High and checked out was how Mickey typically thought of him, but right now, there was underlying anger and resentment that Mickey had never seen, never even sensed. It resonated with his own anger and resentment towards Terry, towards their abhorrent childhood that became even clearer as he tried to take a different parental approach at every turn for Yev. 

“What he did to Mandy,” Iggy looked away, obviously emotional.

Mickey looked away, too, because this was the **most** taboo subject among the Milkovich brothers. _Nobody_ talked about it. Not with each other and certainly not with Mandy. They all knew about it; Mickey assumed they all felt guilty about it, but they did **not** commiserate. They buried those feelings of guilt beneath bravado and some overdeveloped sense of pride at being the terrors of the neighborhood, even Mandy. She might have been the recipient of a particularly disgusting brand of Terry’s attentions, but outside that house, she was a badass bitch who took matters into her own hands when needed. Even Mickey was afraid to cross her.

There was a pause, silence, while they both tried manfully to pull themselves together.

“He fucked us all up, Mickey.” And now he was looking at Mickey, eyes pleading like he was looking for validation. Who the fuck was he to validate anyone?

And fuck, Mickey had **not** expected any of their conversation to get so intense. They were not emotional brothers typically. He just nodded, not sure what to say. He knew they were pretty fucked up; he just didn’t think his stoner of a brother was aware or cared. He may not have given him enough credit.

“So be careful because what little information has come my way is that Terry is into some bad shit, and may have pissed off the wrong people.” Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, “People in The Outfit. People who work for Falcone,” Iggy barely breathed the Capos name, but it was enough to make Mickey swallow in dread. He didn’t know a ton about organized crime, but he did live in Chicago after all. He knew enough to fear it. “They have been expanding their operations, collaborating with the Mexican cartels and snapping up smaller territories like Terry used to run.” And now it made sense why Iggy wanted to meet in person. This wasn't something to be discussed over the phone.

Iggy gathered his dishes along with his own, stacking the cups and saucers together neatly. Wiping imaginary crumbs off the table. His fidgeting was reminiscent of Mickey's own tidying when he was sick with apprehension. When that was done with minimal cleanup, he reached into his apron, pulled out a small roll of bills secured with a rubber band, and pushed it across the table. 

"What the fuck is this?" Mickey didn't know if he could handle any more surprises.

"Look, I hope someday I get to see that house burn to the ground, but you know how Terry feels about it. The way I figure it, he's going to rely heavily on you; he always has." Iggy stared at him and waited for his acknowledgment, which he gave with a nod; it was true after all, "Ignoring and avoiding Terry rarely ever worked for you or Colin. You were sucked in too tight; he needed you too much. Colin is safer being in jail right now, which leaves you. If we can get the money for the back taxes, at least the pressure is off for a bit."

Mickey picked up the roll of bills, tapping its end on the table while he thought about it. Iggy was right; at some point, Terry would be back around demanding Mickey do what was required of him as a Milkovich. Fuck, why was nothing ever simple? Nodding his head, he took the bills and tucked them into his pocket. "You know how much he owes?"

"Last I heard, it was just under twelve large." Gesturing to the roll of bills he had handed Mickey, now tucked in his pocket, "There's seventeen hundred there, and hopefully I can scrape together a little more in the next month. He's got less than sixty days to pay the full amount before they evict and auction the house." Iggy rubbed a hand down his face, "In the past, the process could take years, but these neighborhoods are a hot commodity, and there is lots of cash greasing the wheels to get these houses out of poor suckers hands and into the ritzy titzy elite. I overhear that shit every day while I am serving up mochas and matcha." 

Mickey had no fucking clue what Matcha was, but he got the point. He needed to figure out how to make some cash quickly and without running afoul of his parole officer. Larry Seaver was a jolly fellow, but Mickey got the feeling if he felt like Mickey had played him, his support would disappear real quick. He needed to let Svet know too; she deserved to be aware of the deep shit Terry could try to pull him into. 

Just then, Iggy’s coworker called over, asking for Iggy to come help. Both of them sat back abruptly, realizing that they had been leaning close to keep their discussion quiet. There was a line of customers that had formed. “I gotta go, man. Let’s not wait so long to see each other, and if you get a chance, you should go see Colin; you know he doesn't do well behind bars like you do." Beating a rhythm on the table with his BEAR DOWN tatted knuckles he stood up and started stacking their cups, "We shouldn't wait so long in between seeing each other.”

Mickey wasn't sure how well he had done in prison per se, but yeah, he knew Colin struggled to take direction and lay low when he had done short spells in Cook county. “Okay yeah, and Igs,” He waited for Iggy to look up from the dirty dishes, “Thanks for the info and the coffee. That was cool what you did with the foam thingy.” He sounded kinda dumb saying it, but he figured if he was supposed to praise Yev, it couldn’t hurt to do the same for his brother, who had heard about as much positive feedback growing up as he had. And you know what? The blush of pleasure and pride that bloomed on his cheeks at the unexpected compliment made all the awkwardness worth it. He tossed in one more comment that he knew would be true, "Next time, I'll bring Yev, and he will flip his lid and ask you a million questions about how you did it." Iggy's smile was huge and he bobbed his head like that was exciting.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out to pick up Yev; he was about full up on emotional conversations for the week, but it looked like he and Svet were probably headed for one. Fuck.

***

Watching as Ian came to the table with a beer for him and a soda for himself, Mickey felt those butterflies again. Much like last weekend, he had arrived a little bit ago, and Ian had put him to work helping to set the table. When deciding where to put their place settings, Mickey had internally debated if it showed too much of his hand and then decided he didn’t care and set them next to each other instead of across. 

But that was after. After Ian had greeted him with a kiss as soon as the door was closed, it had been as slow as it was thorough. It made his toes curl in his boots, and he had brought his hand up to cup Ian’s jaw, feeling it’s smoothly shaven edge. Somehow it helped ground him, latent anxiety slipping away, seamlessly bringing him into the moment. 

Now they were sitting down to the meal Ian had promised him. Homemade macaroni and cheese and another stupid salad. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought there might also be broccoli in the macaroni. The temperatures outside had dropped significantly at the back half of the week, and so it was nice to be holed up in Ian’s apartment sharing a meal. 

Ian scooped up a portion for him, including some dressed salad, and then dished himself up. Handing his plate over and smiling, he just said, “Dig in,” and then did the same. 

Picking up his fork after putting the cloth napkin in his lap, he took a bite. Seriously, who had cloth napkins? He wasn’t fancy. He was going to make a sarcastic comment, but then he tasted the macaroni and cheese, and wow, it was so good. “Fuck, that’s really good.” Taking another bite, he could see the green for sure, “Is that broccoli?”

Laughing, Ian confirmed, “Yeah, I like broccoli in mine. With younger siblings, you get used to sneaking in vegetables where you can, but I actually like them.” Thinking about it a little more, he clarified, “well, Lip preferred carcinogens to vegetables too, but if you hide it in enough cheese sauce, he would eat.”

“Clever,” but the truth was, despite the broccoli, it _was_ delicious. He took a few bites of the salad but couldn’t say the same. It wasn’t awful, but he certainly wasn’t excited about it. His foot bumped into Ian’s below the table, and instead of yanking it back, which was his first instinct, he left it there. Their shoes resting next to each other, it wasn’t an incredibly intimate touch, but it was intentional. Mickey didn’t plan to look up from his plate of food anytime soon. “So Lip is your brother?” Hearing the name helped Mickey to connect the dots that he was a Gallagher too. 

“Uh yeah, I think you were in the same grade as him?” Ian’s face said he wasn’t for sure if they had shared the same grade.

“Somewhere around there. He was an arrogant prick but super smart as I recall, so he was always in the AP classes, and I was busy skipping and failing my classes.” Shrugging like none of his shitty choices mattered, “Our paths didn’t cross often.”

“Umm, yup.” That awkward response caused Mickey to look up, and now he could see Ian was studiously _not_ looking at him.

Ah fuck, he had been right when he had said Ian talked a lot even if he hadn’t really been sure about it yet. “You told him, didn’t you?”

Ian looked a little miserable and just nodded.

“I don’t really go around telling people my business.” And by business, he meant who he slept with. He felt the same old anxiety and shame start to surface, but it was strange because it didn’t feel as intense as it typically did. He was not as upset as he thought he _should_ have been that Ian had spilled about him to Lip. He felt exposed, uncertain but also curiously unfettered here, in this space, with Ian. He had food in his belly. He had a beautiful ginger sitting next to him. He felt. Daring? He felt free, maybe? Or at least freer than he could ever remember feeling. He moved his foot more firmly next to Ian’s. It couldn’t be mistaken for an accidental brush this time. Seeing Ian squirm a bit, he decided to move along; they could talk later about what to disclose and to whom, “What did he say about you hanging around a Milkovich?”

That made Ian laugh unexpectedly, “Oh, he remembers you.” He watched as Ian’s cheeks went a little red, and he bit his Lip, “I really didn’t mean to tell him,” Mickey waved it away; for some reason, he didn’t want Ian worrying about that right now. “But I let your name slip, and he mentioned writing a few papers for you and you giving him a beat down with a pool cue.”

Mickey had forgotten about the pool cue incident and recalling it made him snicker, “Like I said, he was a fucking prick, which was probably most of the reason why I did it,” shaking his head. “Plus, he owed me for some weed I fronted him, and he didn’t have the money when it was time to collect. Like Frank,” thinking back a bit, “God, I miss high school sometimes.” In some ways, it had been simpler and, in other ways, immensely more complicated.

“I keep thinking about how it would have been if we had met in high school.” Ian was definitely moving his foot along Mickey’s. Through his boots, he could barely feel the sensation, but it didn’t stop him from getting a little thrill.

“Fuck, man, nothing would have happened.” Thinking back now, if he had known Ian, tried anything with Ian, how awful that would have ended up, “I wouldn’t have tried anything with someone I went to school with.” Really serious now, “Someone who could have ratted me out to my dad.”

“I get the sense from you and from what Lip said that your dad isn’t the welcome and accepting kind?” said lightly but with a serious undercurrent.

Scoffing at the very concept, “Fuck no, Terry is the pistol whip first, ask questions later kind of Dad.” His hands trembled just a little as his mind flashed to seeing the butt of the 9 millimeter right before it cracked his skull. Remembered looking over into Oz's blue eyes as he watched in horror the scene Terry orchestrated on the fly unfold before him. Mickey watched his face in a daze while it happened to him. 

Mickey's vision had been blurry from the blow he received, but he clearly remembered the blood that had oozed from the wounds on Oz's face. His eye had already been swelling shut on the right side, and the fair skin on his cheek and temple had been marred and were bruising. Mickey had known his own face was a mess but seeing Oz's was **so** much worse. Terry hadn’t held back on either of them, but the pistol whip and what came after was something extra special for Mickey because he was a Milkovich, and Terry had caught him bottoming. Even in prison, Milkovich’s didn't bottom; Mickey had heard that his whole godforsaken life. 

That whole experience had left him drenched in shame but, likely because of the head injury and the glorious magic of his brain's survival skills, he blessedly didn't remember much in the months that came after. He wished he could forget the details of that day because what he could remember still haunted him. 

He took a deep breath and blew it out, pushed his plate back, and then himself back from the table. He wasn’t ready to do this, go into this, discuss any of this. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t **ever** have to share that with Ian; he didn’t want to taint him with that darkness. What he did want was to recapture the safety he had felt moments before, the closeness. Standing abruptly, he did his best to reclaim those feelings before Terry came up as a point of discussion. Seeing him rise, Ian went to push back his chair and stand, but Mickey preempted him. Instead, straddling his lap, pushing him back into the seat.

The smile that spread across Ian's face glowed as Mickey settled in his lap and put his arms over Ian’s shoulders. Sitting like this, they were mostly eye to eye, the height difference minimal.

“So Lip knows, huh?” And this time, for the first time, maybe ever, Mickey initiated a kiss. Just soft bussing of lips.

Ian hummed into the kiss before confirming, “Yup.” Gripping his hips in his big paws, gently rocking them together.

“Okay.” And ya know what? It _was_ okay. He would figure it out. Right now, he had more pressing matters like threading his fingers into Ian’s fiery hair and tilting his head just right so he could slip his tongue inside his mouth. They were both moaning, but neither were rushing.

Mickey felt the desire shimmer across his skin, and it chased away the sickly residue that had settled there at the mention of Terry and remembering that day. It was a long time ago. The past couldn’t be changed. Mickey would like it if the past stayed in the past. The present was filled with kissing Ian.

Sometime later, when Mickeys' lips felt tender from making out for so long, and his cock was straining desperately against his jeans' seam, they decided to move. Mickey’s back felt warm from Ian rubbing on it while they made out, and his hips might have small bruises from being squeezed. He didn’t think there had ever been a time in his memory where he had experienced so much touch, and his skin was buzzing with it. It made him a little loopy feeling, carefree, solidly rooted in his body, but like the world was full of opportunities. He felt goddamn high no matter how stupid that was. Snorting at himself, he slipped off of Ian’s lap and tugged him into the bedroom since he knew where it was by now. 

Disrobing was nearly leisurely, with Ian tugging his own shirt off and then sliding his palms along Mickey’s side to draw his up. Mickey had to finish the job because Ian was distracted playing with his nipples, which he was slightly embarrassed to realize were _very_ sensitive. The stimulation to his nipples on top of the sensation overload he had already experienced made Mickey squirm and eager to move along. He didn’t think he could handle being teased much more. Smacking Ian’s hands away with an, “Aye, that’s enough,” he hopped on the bed and reached for the lube. Just as he grabbed it, Ian gripped his hip and flipped him on his back.

Mickey was a little startled and may have made an unmanly squeak, but it was quickly smothered by Ian’s kiss. He was hovering over Mickey, and he had thought he would hate it, would feel claustrophobic but was surprised to find he liked it. It gave him access to Ian’s chest and shoulders, and his knees naturally went to bracket Ian’s hips. He heard the snick of the lube opening, but they didn’t cease kissing. This may be the longest he had kissed in his entire life combined, and it only got better when Ian began prepping him. 

First one finger and god Mickey had a hard time controlling his sounds. Breaking the kiss to tip his head back, huffing and moaning as Ian moved to two fingers and nailed his prostate dead on. It was _so_ good. By the third finger, Mickey realized what was wrong with this position, if they weren’t kissing, then Ian could stare down into his face, and the intimacy was too much. He could feel his mind trying to drift away from the intensity even while he wanted to stay present for what was about to go down. Sometimes it was nice to be disconnected from what was happening to him, to his body, but this wasn’t one of those times.

Acting quickly, he used surprise to his advantage and tipped Ian onto his back. “Alright, Red, pretty sure I am good. Never had so much fuckin’ prep in my life.” He heard Ian chuckle softly at that and then still when Mickey placed his palm on the center of his chest. He hadn’t actually done this before either, but he was pretty sure he could figure out the mechanics. 

Seeing his brief indecision, Ian asked, “You want any help?”

“Fuck no, I’m not climbing Everest; I’m climbing dick.” Ian gave another soft laugh. Mickey stopped overthinking it and straddled Ian’s thighs. He was certain an awkward dismount was in his future, but he couldn’t focus on that right now and grabbed the lube resting beside Ian’s pillow. He took a moment to admire what was before him. Fuck, he was huge, and although Mickey wouldn’t say it out loud and risk sounding any more faggy than he usually did, it really was a thing of beauty. Well over eight inches, cut and with a pearl of come glistening on the tip. He felt entranced and leaned down to lick up the moisture. Another first. The taste wasn’t so bad, and it made his own cock jerk just having done it. Then he got about the business of sheathing Ian’s big dick with the condom he was handed and adding another dollop of lube for good measure. 

Scooching up and placing a hand back on Ian’s impressive chest, he reached back to help guide him to his entrance. It took a little fumbling to get the angle right, and then Mickey started to sink down inch by inch. Holy hell. This was completely different, he could feel the stretch on his rim, and it felt like Ian was so deep inside him that he was in his guts. When he had finally taken all of him, he just rested there a minute, shoulders hunched in, absorbing the feeling; it was so much to take in literally and figuratively. He fucking loved it. 

When he could gather himself, he keyed into Ian rubbing his thighs, up and down on both sides. It was soothing, but he was ready for something more, and he began to rock experimentally. Ian took that as permission for him to move as well, and he bent his knees so he could thrust up into Mickey. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh, fuuuucck.” Mickey wasn’t in control of his mouth as he kneaded Ian's chest like a cat and thrust down to meet every one of Ian’s surges. 

Moving his hands down to Ian’s abdomen so he could brace more effectively and roll his hips, he was getting into it. Ian moved his own hands from Mickey’s hips to his wrists and repositioned them on his chest, holding them there for a few. Whatever, Mickey couldn’t really focus on much else other than getting thoroughly plowed.

He watched as Ian bit his lip and moaned and then moved his hand down and cupped Mickey’s balls as he thrust down, rolling them. The new sensation made Mickey almost frantic, especially when Ian slid a finger back and pressed on his rim too. He was so full already, but just the threat of anything more had him grinding down. Leaning back against Ian's legs and bracing on his upraised thighs, he was entirely on display for Ian. He had the fleeting thought he should feel embarrassed at acting like such a slut, but all of it just ramped him up more, made him want more. 

Ian finally grasped him and worked his dick until he was shooting up Ian’s chest, a streak by his nipple. Without thinking it through further, he shuddered through the aftershocks, leaned forward and licked up his own spend, and then latched onto Ian's nipple. Ian gripped his hips hard, thrust twice more, and then came in the condom, but Mickey would have sworn he felt the spurt and wished momentarily that there was no barrier. Wished Ian was actually making a mess inside him. His own dick oozed a final bit of come as he thought about Ian leaking out of him. 

His face wasn’t red only from exertion as he hid it in Ian’s neck for a moment, breathing him in, surrounded by his scent and their sweat mingling where they touched. Eventually, he awkwardly scrambled off of Ian and slid down into the bed next to him to recover. He heard Ian taking care of the condom and, once he had caught his breath, getting up to go into the bathroom. 

When he returned, he felt Ian cleaning him with a warm wet rag, and the thought returned unbidden that he wished there was more to clean up than lube, that if Ian had come inside him, he wouldn’t want it wiped away immediately but would want to feel it leaking out of him. He could barely contain the moan that wanted to slip out at how hot he thought that was while also trying not to squirm at how utterly filthy it was, how embarrassing to want something like that. Some things never needed to be spoken about. 

Finally, when Ian was done fussing about, he lay next to Mickey, close enough that they were lightly touching along their bodies. Mickey kept his face turned away for a bit, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the little bit of anxiety niggling at the edges. He knew Ian was tentative because of the way he had left after they had banged previously. He had seen movies; he knew what usually came next if he stayed the night like they had discussed. And he wanted it, but it was hard to reach out.

He felt a cautious hand in the middle of his back, rubbing lightly. Taking one more breath, Mickey turned over, grabbed a pillow, and stuffed it under his head so he could look at Ian. The smile Ian rewarded him with for not freaking the fuck out was ridiculous, but it made him smile back a bit, too, as Ian mirrored his position. 

“Every time I don’t think it can get better, it does,” Ian said with the most relaxed look on his face like he was stating a fact.

And he was; there was no disagreement from Mickey. “Yeah,” Mickey wasn’t really used to talking about this. You didn’t have conversations about how good it was with the guy blowing you in a bathroom or fucking you behind a dumpster. Swallowing and showing a little courage, he tucked down so he wasn’t making eye contact, which put him closer to Ian’s shoulder. He couldn’t resist, laying there in Ian’s bed, feeling relaxed, smelling him. Smelling them. He kissed his shoulder, and then his hand snuck up to rub the chest hair between Ian's pecs. Ian had a nice amount of chest hair, unlike Mickey’s chest, which, must to his embarrassment, was nearly hairless. Ian hummed and rolled onto his back, and Mickey found himself tucked up under his arm, head on his chest along with his hand. He thought about pulling back, creating space, but he really didn’t want to, so he didn’t. 

Not saying anything, he just continued to pet the chest hair under his fingers and tried really hard not to let any of the intrusive thoughts about why being this close to a man was wrong, was something he should resist. Following the chest hair down to his abdomen, he noticed when Ian repositioned his hand higher. He’d done that while they were fucking. He should probably leave it alone; maybe he was ticklish. His curiosity got the better of him. “What’s that about?”

“What?” He wasn’t sure if Ian was being deliberately obtuse or really wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

“You keep moving my hand.” He again trailed his palm south, and Ian went to reposition it but, realizing what he was doing, checked his move, sliding his hand down into the sheets bunched around their hips and gripping it tightly.

“Nothing.” But he was tense now.

He didn’t want to actually touch Ian in a way he didn’t want to be touched, but he was confused, leaning up to see his face, “What is it?”

He could see Ian swallow and turn his head to look away, “I just, ummm,” he took another breath, “I just have put some weight on through the middle and don’t particularly like that part of myself.”

Mickey could see that had been hard to say but genuinely couldn’t see what he was talking about. He was muscled and thick, his stomach had some softness, but just from the little he had touched it, there were obviously developed muscles beneath. “What the fuck are you even talking about? You are ripped like a ginger Steven Seagal.”

And that made Ian laugh with surprised glee, “Just missing the ponytail?” He took the opportunity to roll on top of Mickey, and then they were laughing together.

“It’s a powerful ponytail, man.” He could remember watching movies featuring Seagal and secretly thinking he was so hot. Ian had him beat by a mile. 

They tussled a bit and then settled down, “Yeah, well, I used to have more of a Van Damme body, leaner and less beefy.” Ian shrugged, dismissive.

Naturally resettling himself against the lee of Ian’s body and under the arm Ian wrapped around his shoulders, Mickey gently set his hand on Ian’s stomach again, saying quietly, “Yeah well, good thing I like beef.” He made like he was jokingly going to take a bite out of Ian’s chest but then rested his head there instead. Ian laughed quietly and sighed but didn’t move his hand away this time. Mickey wasn't even sure who he was anymore.

It was still relatively early, but neither of them seemed to be gearing up for anything beyond relaxing. Mickey kept thinking about Lip, knowing about them and trying to sort through his feelings, if he thought it was a problem or not. He finally just decided to say something, “So Lip knows then?”

He felt Ian tense a little, “Yeah, he does.” Hearing Ian swallow, he continued, “He doesn’t have an issue with the whole gay thing. When I was younger, he had kind of a hard time getting it at first, but he’s always been supportive.”

“Nah, it’s cool man, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I was just surprised.” If it wasn’t an issue with Ian, it wouldn’t be an issue for him. Who knows where this would ultimately go anyway.

"So why'd you have Lip writing your papers?" He could tell from the overly casual way Ian asked he was curious and had probably been trying to piece it together.

He shrugged and wasn't really going to answer but then remembered Angie telling him to start slow, which meant sharing _some_ stuff even if it wasn't the big stuff yet. Also, Ian had obviously just revealed his own insecurities about his body, so it seemed fair. Twisting his lips as he thought about his response, he appreciated that Ian seemed to wait for him to find the right words. "There was a short period where I thought I was going to make something of myself, try to graduate with my class and all that bullshit." Waving his hand dismissively, "I was always shit at English and writing, and you know Lip," Snorting and thinking back, "He had a pretty good little gig there writing papers for cash. Or a little weed in my case."

"What happened that you ended up dropping out?" Ian was rubbing gentle circles on his back, and Mickey really wanted to hate it, but it actually made talking easier.

"Oh ya know, decked a police officer, ended up in another round of juvie, seemed pretty pointless after that." His dad had needed him to do more runs independently, it was a numbers game, and eventually, he got caught. It's not like Terry had ever thought school was important. 

"Like I mentioned before, I was part of ROTC, thought I was going to have a whole military career." Ian chuckled derisively as he thought back, "Things seemed simpler, more straightforward back then." He slid his hand up Mickey's back and cupped the back of his neck. 

Mickey had always been very sensitive there, and it made a slight tremor go through him as he melted a little more.

"Have you ever wanted something for your future? " Ian asked.

And what was it with that kind of question? First Yev and now Ian. Mickey was convinced that if Ian wasn't rubbing his nape, he wouldn't have responded, but he was also working on it, working on sharing. "Yeah, I used to want to be a barber," Ian's hand stopped briefly and then picked up a little firmer, and Mickey actually rubbed back into the hand, "That's what having Lip write the papers was about, thought I was going to maybe go to Barber school." Telling Ian didn't feel as ludicrous as it had when he said it to Yev, who was painfully bright-eyed with possibility, Ian understood there were restrictions on dreams for someone like him. Really having dreams was kinda pointless.

"Oh wow," It was apparent Ian hadn't expected that as a response. It was okay; he knew it was surprising he'd had aspirations back in the day. "You should look into it, Mick."

Mickey just snorted; he wasn't going to dine to reply to that absurdity, but also, he was pretty sure that was the first time Ian had called him Mick. He liked it. It felt familiar. They were quiet for a bit, and it was actually peaceful and relaxed.

Eventually, Ian broke the silence, “You know Mandy used to be my pretend girlfriend in high school? She knew about me.” Ian gestured to himself. 

Mickey could feel the vibrations along the side of his face as Ian talked and moved his hands. He hadn’t known that, and it was one more thing he was going to have to think about.

“She knows about you?” Ian probed.

Mickey just shrugged and made a questioning gesture with his hand. "Not sure; we don’t talk much these days.”

“What’s she up to?” Ian asked.

“She lives with our cousin Sandy, not that far from the old neighborhood, actually.” Swallowing, he added, “I think she’s going to school too or something,” he wasn’t going to share what she did to generate income. That was her business and not something he would share. 

Just thinking about it made him worry. He was glad she had gotten away from that shitbag Kenyatta, but she was still his baby sister, and he didn’t want her to do what she was doing. The few times they had talked about it, she had told him she was safe and it was her choice. He’s pretty sure the girls he had pimp’d for back in the day would have said something similar. Maybe. It was all bullshit; although Mandy had her own sad story, she had somewhat more control over her client base as an escort. 

He knew that wasn't the case for many of the working girls. Many were brought over from other countries, barely spoke the language, and didn't have access to get ID's which kept them dependent and vulnerable. He hadn't been the kind of pimp that beat his girls, but it didn't mean he hadn't been exploiting them. He wasn't proud of that. 

Svetlana had broken it down for him one day, not long after Yev was born. She wanted something different for him, which meant she needed something different from Mickey. At the time, Mickey had been resistant as a knee jerk reaction. Their relationship had been contentious, both feeling suffocated and trapped. What she had explained had stuck with him, cast every interaction with the girls in a different light. It wasn't long after that a sting focusing on Johns had broken up the Rub and Tug for good. Svet had transitioned to working downstairs in the bar full time. They had done their best to get the girls connected with good pimps or out of the life if that's what they wanted but their resources were limited, and many weren't ready to transition. Mickey knew Svet was still in contact with some of them.

“Oh, really?” And Ian sounded so honestly happy it was cute while also being incongruous with the real story, “that’s so great. I would love to catch up with her someday.” Mickey just tried to keep breathing steadily as he realized how precariously his two worlds were separated right now. How easy it would be for them to smash together. 

“Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t need to commit to anything right now. He could just enjoy the rest of the evening and whatever tomorrow brought. “I gotta piss, man.” And he slid out of bed, effectively ending the discussion, at least for now. 

Getting up, he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth while he was in there. He could feel the stupid soft smile on his face as he saw Ian had kept what was essentially his toothbrush in the holder; whether he wanted him to or not, Ian was making space in his life for him. It was a lot to take in, but he let the comforting feeling it generated settle deep for now.

He pulled back on his boxers when he went back into the bedroom and realized Ian had left. He followed the sounds of Ian moving around in the kitchen and found him putting away the leftovers. Helping to move the dishes over to the sink, Mickey automatically started loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counters. It enabled him to feel like things were in order, everything in its place even if this wasn’t his apartment. Ian came up behind him as he finished the last of it, slinging an arm over his shoulder from behind and squeezing across his pecs. He gave his temple a kiss and said, “Thanks. Gonna go get ready for bed,” and then sauntered off to the bathroom.

Taking just a minute to make sure everything was put away and wiped down, Mickey looked around. He really wasn’t sure how he had found himself in this situation; he thought he should be panicking and running. Avoiding staying the night as he had agreed to. Trying to move them back to sex only or cut off all contact. But he just really really didn’t want to. 

He slid back in bed and didn’t miss the smile when Ian came out of the bathroom and found him there. It made sense that Ian had probably been worried he might have slipped out while he was brushing his own teeth. They lay there on their backs and chatted for a bit about nothing in particular, movies, songs, technology. It wasn’t particularly meaningful, but it was light. Ian drifted off first, and Mickey turned on his side towards him, watching the soothing rhythm of him breathing in and out. As he felt his own eyes get heavy, he slid his hand across the sheets until he could grip Ian’s bicep. Keeping it soft so as not to wake him, he felt his whole person relax an additional notch as he drifted off with a sense of security. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is making progress and imagine Ian waking up next to him.....soooooo happy!
> 
> Comments are love, please leave a comment if you are so inclined. 
> 
> Luluxa has created a beautiful companion art pieces for this chapter and you can find all of her work here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)  
> Chapter 5 Artwork: [Brotherly Coffee Klatcsch](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5f6626ba2a4001cde1ca1a6fa71e8126/516231d1782bffb1-f3/s1280x1920/85cc4178f633e929b0f204b3657b3d832ed69590.jpg)  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is in Svet's POV, we really get to see the world from her perspective. It's been a rough life and it's discussed in some detail so be prepared. She's made a decision about how she can help Mickey and therefore Terry get the money he needs but she knows it will have heartbreaking consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Kitteninmyhair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitteninmyhair/pseuds/Kitteninmyhair) for beta reading and editing my work. I value all of your support!  
>   
> Thank you to [Tarosya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarosya/pseuds/Tarosya) for providing the Russian translations and words I was able to put in my story.
> 
> **Russian Words:  
> **  
>  Pozhaluysta: Please  
> Zhenya: Nickname for Yev, affectionate and what family and friends would call him  
> Pridurki – Harmless Idiots  
> Ponimaesh – Understand?  
> stairy dolboeb:(old fucker)  
> Misha/Micka: Affectionate Russian version of Mickey's name  
> Sdelannogo ne vorotish: "What's done is done" type phrase  
> Budem: Cheers  
> Angelochek – Affectionate term for Angie meaning Angel

Feeling the hot flash of pain in her left middle finger, Svet pulled her hand back and heard the knife slide across the bar and clatter to the floor. "Blyad," she cursed under her breath as she felt the sting intensify with the acid from the limes she had been slicing. Looking down, she could see she had taken a good chunk out of the end of her finger. Fuck. Of course. Everything was going to shit. There was blood on the board and the limes. Using her uninjured right hand, she dumped the limes in the garbage and tossed the cutting board into the sink to be dealt with in a minute.

"Ay, Svet, what's with all the racket?" Tommy piped up unhelpfully. She didn't bother responding.

"You okay?" Kermit went to retrieve the knife that had slid off the edge of the bar. Kermit was more tolerable, but she didn't respond to him either.

Raising her voice, "Kev, come here." She could hear her tone sounded like a demand and added a belated, " Pozhaluysta." She frequently failed at trying not to be a demanding bitch all the time. Good thing Kevin was used to her and really preferred to be led around versus doing the leading. In the back, he was making prototype sandwiches for their resident barfly's to try as he and V assessed if they were going to branch out with a small, simple menu. It had been her idea, and she was glad they were considering it. Anything that kept bringing in customers to the Alibi and provided job stability she deemed acceptable. However, right now, she needed him in the front.

"Just a minute," she heard him yell back. Sometimes he got really into his creations, which could run the gamut from peanut butter pickle on simple white bread to a vegetarian bagel sandwich with avocado and lemon pepper. Needless to say, neither of those had received rave reviews by Tommy or Kermit, although they had reluctantly admitted they hadn't hated either sandwich. Like they were afraid they were going to lose street cred by admitting they ate vegetables. Like they had any street cred to begin with. Fucking idiots.

Infusing urgency into her voice, she grabbed a clean bar towel, "Kev, now." She needed to step away to rinse the cut but the counter needed to be wiped down with disinfectant. She hoped it was something that would heal on its own. The thought of going to the hospital made her shoulders tense. She was sure this wasn't something she would seek medical attention for unless it was much worse than she suspected. She didn't need the questions or curious looks a hospital could bring. She reminded herself she had people now, support. It wasn't all on her shoulders to keep Zhenya safe like it had been there for a bit. There was Mickey and Angie. Maybe Angie. Probably not for long. She still didn't plan to go to the hospital, barring genuine concern for loss of limb.

Seeing her occupied as she wrapped up her finger in a clean bar towel, Tommy leaned over and helped himself to a refill on his pint. "What seems to be the problem, Svet?"

She really had no patience for those two pridurki on a good day, let alone right now. However, confirming the bar was still basically empty, she decided the risk was low to leave them in charge for a few minutes, "I cut finger." She held up said finger, "Don't touch anything, or I bash your head in with hammer, ponimaesh? " She took a moment to look at them both, ensuring they knew she was serious, "I go talk to Kevin."

With that, she grabbed a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and went back to find Kev, who was putting bread in the toaster. It was highly likely he had already forgotten her summons to the front.

"Kev," she knew she said it loudly and was bordering on insolence, but sometimes he could be tedious. He startled, obviously deep into his thought and his planning process.

Grabbing his chest, he whirled around, "Jesus Christ, Svet. You scared the crap out of me." He was still trying to recover.

Continuing to give him a deadpan look other than a raised brow, she didn't engage with his chatter. "I cut finger." Motioning her hand covered in the towel, "I go clean and take break."

"Oh shit, you okay?" And he was swiftly by her side, cradling her hand in his big paws. "Let me see."

She really didn't want him looking; she didn't need his help. She could handle it on her own, but she also didn't want to jerk her hand free. Kev and V had been kind to her, something she found hard to know how to respond to. Although Kevin's goofiness could be tiresome to be around, she didn't have a desire to hurt the big dope's feelings. He was basically a giant softy. Even more sensitive than Mickey, and although Mickey would hate it if she labeled him that way, she had known him long enough, been married to him, to know he had a very soft underbelly.

However, Mickey was a prickly pear, challenging to get to that soft middle, something she understood. Kevin, embarrassingly, wore his heart on his sleeve, which always surprised people when dealing with the muscley bodybuilder who topped 6' 4". Case and point, he gently unwrapped her finger and promptly had to bend over and brace himself on his knees to avoid passing out at the sight of blood.

He was too much; Svet rolled her eyes and moved past him while he breathed in and out to try and get ahold of his automatic response to the very mild gore. Setting aside the bottle of vodka, she turned on the water at the sink in the small kitchen space and stuck her finger in the cool stream. Said over her shoulder, "When you are done being a pussy can you please go sanitize the counter, knife, and cutting board?"

Holding up a finger, "Yeah, just give me a minute." He was breathing deeply and looking very pale.

Deciding he was a big boy and could take care of himself, she turned to the sink and made sure she got the cut thoroughly cleaned out. The pain was now just a dull ache, and while it was a deep cut, she determined it didn't need medical attention.

Kevin was finally standing up and bracing his large body against the wall, still breathing deeply.

"Going to bandage this up and take break." God, she needed a smoke in the worst way. She rarely smoked these days, didn't even carry around a pack with her. However, she kept a pack at work and occasionally took a break in the alley.

She used a paper towel to wrap around her finger and put pressure on the wound to absorb the blood until it stopped, and she could bandage it. She opened the vodka bottle, careful to avoid aggravating the injury, and took a large swig before replacing the lid. She allowed a moment for the warmth of the shot to hit her belly, and then she took a smoke from her pack sitting in the windowsill by the exit to the alley along with a lighter. Tapping her waist apron, she confirmed her phone was in the pocket. She had some business to take care of.

Stepping outside, she was glad she had worn a long-sleeved shirt because this deep into October, it was cold, and while the two buildings she was standing between protected her from the whipping wind, it still wasn't exactly pleasant. Dabbing the paper towel on her finger to get rid of the excess blood, she moved to a clean part and reapplied firm pressure.

She knew why her concentration was off, the lapse that had caused her to slice her finger in the first place. It had been a week since Mickey had spoken with her about the Terry situation after his conversation with Iggy. She had been racking her brain about how to come up with a large sum of money quickly and had only come up with one solution. Especially since killing Terry was out of the question. Owing back taxes was a problem, but who he was involved with to try and make a quick buck was the real problem. He was going to screw over the wrong person and get himself killed, which would be a bonus unless Mickey was caught up in his stupid bullshit.

After living with Terry for several years, both with Mickey present and after he went to prison, she wanted nothing to do with him; she would keep him away from Zhenya at all costs. She also knew how important the house was to Terry; it was something he had brought up drunk and sober with varying degrees of vehemence that it must stay in the family no matter what. It was his legacy, and while she might think it was laughable, Terry was very seriofus on this point. Terry had poor impulse control and planning skills on a good day; that level of desperation put everyone he perceived as vulnerable to his influence at risk. That influence could come with violence, manipulation, or both.

She didn't want to think about those times, the stress of living there and needing to protect Zhenya. It had been different than the years she had spent looking out for herself alone. She could keep herself safe, relatively, but Zhenya had been so small and defenseless, and Terry had an awful temper. She had been front and center to see how nasty Terry could be when she was called into the house initially. She pressed the cut finger even harder, making it sting now, bleed more. She hated that memory most of all, and even though she hadn't set it in motion, she was sick with self-loathing when she thought about being the tool used against Mickey. She hadn't always seen it that way, but once she had, it filled her with disgust. At herself. At Terry. At a cruel world where her body was an exploited commodity, and Mickey was defenseless against the physical and psychological power his father had held over him, still held over him in some ways.

Once Mickey was gone, it had become even more apparent how much his presence alone had protected her from Terry. Even when he had been out of it in the months immediately after the incident, when she had been in the early stages of pregnancy, he had been a comforting presence. She had thought, stupidly, there might be a possibility they would make a go at some type of actual marriage. Initially, he had been spacy as he recovered from the concussion Terry had obviously given him, and then he had vacillated between tuned out and defensive or aggressive, but he had never lifted a hand against her. Not even after Zhenya was born and she was at her nastiest, angry and scared that he wasn't bonding with him, worried he wouldn't provide for them.

He had slept in the bed beside her in a sleeping bag and never touched her, something she'd had a hard time understanding. He, in fact, had seemed to go out of his way to avoid touching her even casually. As a woman used to men trying to get in a free grope, it had confused her. The one time she had tried to initiate contact, showing she was open to doing her wifely duties, he had dumped himself out on the floor in his effort to get away and made it very clear she wasn't to touch him. He had slept on the couch for a week until she had assured him she wouldn't try that again.

It had slowly dawned on her he had no desire for her, that the shared bed and room could be a mini sanctuary for them both behind closed doors. Once they tacitly called a truce, they began working together for their mutual benefit, including cleaning up their space, and in a dramatic turn of events, he became her pimp.

Six months into her pregnancy, Mickey seemed to be doing better. He was fully recovered from the head injury and less checked out, although he still had high anxiety and was prone to panic attacks. She never acknowledged them because he seemed invested in keeping them a secret, but sharing a small space meant secrets were hard to keep. Sometimes she would find him wedged between the bed and the dresser, chest heaving like he was out of breath. Occasionally she would just sit with him, breathe with him, and other times he would gasp out for her to leave, and she would step out and close the door behind her, keep Zhenya away until he emerged. He never brought it up, and so neither did she, but she knew she was one of the things that could make it worse even if it was inadvertent.

Shaking her head at the memories that seemed to want to push to the surface despite her best efforts to suppress them for the past week, she lit her cigarette and sucked in a drag until it burned her lungs. The first time she'd had nicotine in weeks, coupled with the sting in her finger and all the memories assaulting her, made her feel a little woozy. Leaning back against the door, she blew out the smoke and decided to stop fighting it. Decided to let the memory reel play that her brain so obviously wanted to run through in light of the choice she was making. Perhaps if given free rein for a bit, the memories would leave her alone again.

Sometime toward the end of her pregnancy, Mickey got riled up that she wasn't making enough money turning tricks because too large of a cut was going to Sasha, the parlor's proprietress where she worked. He had crashed the parlor, liberated the other working girls, and left confident he had the upper hand to negotiate with Sasha. He had directed the lackey at the front to pass on the message that his wife was a hooker, not a slave. Chuckling to herself, she thought of what a proud little peacock Misha had been over what he thought of as his big win, calling himself the Abe Lincoln of mouth whores.

Not shockingly, Sasha hadn't been interested in negotiating to get her girls back because there was always fresh meat available in the world of sex trafficking. Mickey's newly liberated working girls were known and used; Sasha had already been sourcing fresh pussy. So, Mickey had gathered up the girls and started the Rub and Tug above the Alabi, splitting profits with Kev.

He may have been a mouthy asshole, but he personally assured retribution on the occasion someone thought roughing up one of the girls or shorting them their payment was acceptable. It didn't take long before his reputation caught up with clients, and the issue took care of itself. Unfortunately, despite Mickey's grand plans for the Rub and Tug, it turned out running an illicit whore house was more costly than he had anticipated. Svet and the girls didn't see more cash, but the overall consensus was that being one of Mickey's Liberated Girls, as they called themselves, had been a trade up. Which was impressive given the lack of walls, actual beds, or effective heating. After it closed down, some had been able to get out of the life; others hadn't been interested or weren't able to make the transition. Svet kept tabs on the ones who were interested in being in contact.

Taking another drag, Svet thought about the ways that had been doomed to failure; at his heart, Mickey really wasn't a pimp, even less so after she had shared with him how she ended up hooking. Sold into the life by her father when she was young, it was all she had known for most of her life. She had scrapped and manipulated her way into getting her needs met. She wasn't always proud of what she had done, but survival didn't leave a lot of room for pride. She had known many girls who wouldn't do what needed to be done, and they ended up dead, buried in unmarked graves somewhere between Moscow and whatever city they were being shipped to in the US. Her story wasn't remarkable.

She had been determined from the beginning to survive, to make something of herself. And she had. When the Rub and Tug was shut down for good in a police sting on Johns, she saw it as the hand of God encouraging her to take a different path. She wasn't overly religious, but Zhenya was baptized to cover her bases, and occasionally she attributed new opportunities to divine intervention. What it really had been was her penchant for observation; her wellbeing had depended on it for years. It wasn't hard to see that Kev and V were running ragged with the new twins and finding a creative solution to meet all of their needs hadn't been difficult.

They all rotated, taking care of the three kids and working the bar along with whatever other side hustle they could drum up. It had worked well for all of them, and although their kids were in school now and various free after-school programs, she had continued to work behind the bar. She had also streamlined their bookkeeping, which had been a mess, and switched liquor vendors, so they weren't being gouged every week. She knew how to make herself valuable. For more than six years now, she had been out of the life because she had found ways to be needed, but she was about to make an exception.

Taking another drag, she also reflected on how those early years hadn't been all bad. She and Mickey had lived in relative platonic domestic peace. They didn't talk about it, but much like the panic attacks, Svet realized Mickey was one hundred percent gay and deeply in the closet. Not hard to understand considering his father and what had already been done to him. She assumed his siblings were unaware. They hadn't questioned the extensive physical injuries Mickey had sported that took weeks to recover from. It had been a common enough occurrence in their childhood that nobody needed a special explanation. Despite sleeping six inches apart, they gave each other space and freedom to carry on their own personal activities; being a married couple in some ways had been mutually beneficial.

It had taken Mickey a long time to bond with Zhenya, which had been painful for her to watch. Svet had just continued to expose him to Zhenya and encouraged Mickey to hold him for short periods, and she marked the milestones with enthusiasm, such as walking and first teeth. Slowly he had calmed down around him, and eventually, he had become more comfortable. Even if the marriage itself was fake and they were in the tense Milkovich house, Svet had some very fond memories of that time, being a new mom and watching Zhenya grow every day. Watching Mickey fumble through learning to change a diaper or deal with baby spit-up. It had been too good to last. One day Mickey was there, and the next, he was arrested and on the path to prison.

With Mickey gone, she swiftly learned Terry got handsy, mostly only when he was doing lines and drinking. Four tablets of Robitussin ground up and slipped into whatever drink she graciously brought him had become her solution and avoided most conflicts as he passed out on the couch. Before she had found her solution, he had caught her unawares several times, but she had been able to get off light in most cases. A lifetime of learning how to accept touch she didn't want and participate in acts she found distasteful had been a blessing.

If Terry, that stairy dolboeb, only knew the number of times she had stood over his prone body with a pillow as he snored, contemplating putting it over his face and holding it there until his body stopped twitching, he would be horrified. Zhenya had been his saving grace as well, rescued by the thought that she couldn't be arrested and serving time alongside Mickey, or worse yet, deported and separated from Zhenya for forever. It's what still kept her in check.

Zhenya was older now but still relatively defenseless. He was smart and observant. She didn't want him to ask questions, and he surely would if Terry started trying to come around to bug Mickey. She never wanted to tell him how he was conceived, the hand she had played in raping Mickey. She felt herself choke just thinking the word, the correct label she made herself face, even if it was only to herself.

It was her turn to protect Misha, and she knew he would get sucked into Terry's bullshit if she didn't do something. The Milkovich familial dynamic didn't allow much in the way for Mickey to disobey Terry. She knew it was part of why Mickey chose to avoid him instead. He had grown, was more independent, but she could see the effects it had on him every time he had to slip into the role of being Terry Milkovich's son and most trusted right hand when he met up with Terry. He got this particularly haunted look on his face as he automatically tried to find ways to both appease Terry and keep everyone important in his life safe.

There was really only one way she could personally pull in cash quickly and hopefully keep everyone unaffected by Terry, including Mickey. She didn't need him out doing thug shit at Terry's bidding and landing another spell in prison. She didn't think he would survive, it had been hard to see him struggling the longer he was behind bars, and she needed him around to be a father to Zhenya. She cared about him; didn't want him to have more harm in his life. Her feelings for Mickey were complicated, a solid mix of maternal caring and some fucked up version of a trauma bonded friendship. The circle of people she cared about was incredibly small, but she was fiercely protective of those on the inside of it.

She took the last drag, crushed the butt out under heel, and texted Mandy.

She blew out the smoke, opened the door, and stepped back into the warmth of the little kitchen behind the bar. Pulling back the paper towel to see what the damage was to her finger, she confirmed it had stopped bleeding and threw away the bloody towel. Unscrewing the cap on the vodka, she stood staring into the top of the bottle, as unbidden, the thought that she could go to Angie, see if she could help, lend her money, drifted through her mind. Again. As it repeatedly had in the past week. It was so tempting. She knew Angie would help her get the money.

She couldn't, though. She needed to handle this, didn't want to sully Angie with her toxic past. Angie knew some of her and Mickey's history, but she didn't know the full story, what she had done. It would be better to do what she needed to, and if the likely result was an end, that was better than to suck her into the abyss. Angie knew about her past as a whore, had accepted it, but it was very different to have theoretical knowledge about something versus knowing the act was fresh.

Angie was good people; she needed to find a woman who could be emotionally available to her, could give her the love she deserved. Blinking extra hard and tightening her jaw, she knocked back another swig and went to find a band aid.

Maybe this would be a little bit of atonement. She couldn't undo what she had done to Misha, but perhaps this would help balance the cosmic scale in some small way.

Mandy and her didn't talk much, although the animosity of their early years when they were all living on top of each other under the Milkovich roof had gone by the wayside. Svet wasn't sure precisely what Mandy thought was the reality of their marriage. She figured it was easy enough for her to tell she and Mickey weren't a romantic couple, but the siblings were very closed off from each other, so it was hard to know. Mandy knew Angie and her were close, she ad dropped by the apartment for various reasons when she was there, but she didn't know they were more than friends. So much more.

All of the dynamics and secrets had made it hard to form any connection, even if Svet had been any good at making friends with other women. She knew other women found her off-putting, which at different times had worked to her advantage. Seeing other women as competition instead of as equals or fellow victims had helped her compartmentalize what was happening to all of them, herself included.

And then fuckin' Angie had slipped beneath all of her defenses with her combination of forceful optimism and straight-shooting. In the same neighborhood as the Malkovich's, she had frequently been in her yard when Svet took Zhenya for walks just to get out of the house. Talking had started innocently enough, but then Svet found herself peeking out the window and down the road to see if she was home before going on her walks so she could hopefully catch time to chat with her. Then one day, Angie had asked Svet on a date, blushing and a little shy, but still making direct eye contact and tentatively reaching a finger out to touch her cheek. All of the nervous energy and excitement Svet had felt around just seeing Angie had coalesced into a dawning understanding that she had been attracted to Angie. Attraction hadn't played a key role in her life up to that point since most of her sexual liaisons had been the result of men paying cash for the privilege to fuck her and then someone else taking a cut.

Svet screwed the lid back on the bottle and went to find the first aid kit on the wall to be able to cover up the injury. Finding the band aid, she pulled it out and tried to just focus on putting it on and not the thoughts she didn't seem to have control of. She was too far down the path now; those memories were pushing to the forefront, making her heart ache. So she took a deep breath, leaned on the counter, and allowed herself to remember those first romantic interactions. Just that finger on her cheek initially. Svet had realized she couldn't clearly remember the last time she had been touched because she wanted it, if ever. Touch without an exchange of money, touch that wasn't selfish, was about mutual pleasure.

In her world, touch was frequently violent, meant to bend her will to the desires of the John or whichever pimp was in charge. The network of pimps who sex-trafficked undocumented Russian girls was relatively tight, and there were absolutely ones she had tried to use what little leverage she had to avoid serving. There were pimps, and sex trafficking rings used to scare the girls with the threat of being traded to a more violent operation. Sasha had been a bitch, and her henchmen had been rough and not above backhanding a girl, but she didn't cater to certain sexual desires, and she never allowed her merchandise to be permanently marked. She was one of the better ones.

Marrying Mickey and him subsequently becoming her pimp had gotten her out of that network all together, along with several other girls. But this business with Angie was long after that, several years later when Mickey was in prison, and she and Zhenya lived alone with Terry except when Iggy was sleeping there off and on.

And in that moment when Angie brushed her cheek, Svet had wanted Angie's hands on her. Touching her, kissing her, things Svet realized she had never had an actual desire for previously. Faking desire had occasionally been necessary, but far more often than not, the johns didn't give a fuck if she enjoyed herself, so it was one less thing to fake. She had been embarrassed to realize she hadn't recognized her feelings for Angie as an attraction, but in retrospect, it had been clear. Getting closer to Angie, seeking out her company more often than not. Angie must have seen the dawning awareness because she had leaned up so carefully and slowly bussed their lips, right there on the streets of the South Side. It had been scary and exhilarating.

Their relationship had grown from there, but it was terrifying being in a relationship with Angie. She was so open and vulnerable, and Svet didn't know how to do either of those things. She knew how to safeguard Zhenya, but he was really the only one she had known how to be emotionally engaged with, and he had been just out of the toddler stage. Angie had taught her over time how to give and receive soft touches and how to be soft, even with Zhenya. Without Angie's loving guidance, Svet was confident she wouldn't be half the mother she was now.

For all of her softness, Angie was no pushover. She would disapprove of her current choice, stridently and vocally, if she were aware. And it was a choice. Svet was clear; she was making a choice. She was inviting this experience, even if it was in exchange for needed cash. It gave her some sense of control. Even if everything that was likely to come after was going to feel like chaos. Angie had become such a central part of her life; she wasn't sure how she would deal with the inevitable end. Despite her best efforts, a tear slipped down her cheek, which she slapped away. She couldn't afford to dwell on what could have been or the improbability that she and Angie would have worked out long term.

Ignoring the shaking in her hands, she opened the bandage and covered her finger. Her phone buzzed, and when she checked it to see, she had a response from Mandy. She would drop by the bar later in the week, and they could talk then. Sdelannogo ne vorotish. What's done is done.

***

Svet slipped into the booth at the back of the bar with two shot glasses and a nearly full bottle of Stolichnaya. Pouring two shots, she picked one up and held it, waited for Mandy to pick hers up.

"Budem," Svet declared before tossing back the shot.

Mandy just rolled her eyes, "Yeah, whatever, cheers," and then she took the shot.

Svet poured a refill but sat back to sip it. She didn't plan on drinking heavily this early in the day and needed to keep her wits about her. Not that she couldn't drink everyone in the bar under the table. Mandy took a small sip of the second shot and leaned back as well; they studied each other for a moment before Svet broke the silence, "How are you, Mandy?"

Her hair was back to jet black, and she wore skinny black jeans, black combat-style boots, and several layers covered by a zipped hoodie. She was dressed down for comfort and warmth with her face makeup-free. She still looked delicate despite the severe color and layers, and Svet assumed that appealed to her client base. Men who paid for sex, even if it was cloaked in terms of companionship, always wanted to have power over the women they purchased. It was a dynamic as old as time. Mandy had perfected the vulnerable energy she gave off even if Svet knew there was another side. She could be a force to be reckoned with, and Svet was trying to walk the fine line between gaining her assistance and not clashing with her.

Mandy and her may not be comrades, but she knew Mandy had a resilient spirit, and she was a Milkovich at the end of the day. They had fought with each other and alongside each other a time or two. She was a dirty fighter and Svetlana loved her a little for that. Overall, Svet thought she looked healthy, and while perhaps not happy, she didn't seem sullen and angry like she had when they first met. It had been a dark time for all of them, albeit for different reasons. It was good to see her at least appear to be in a better place. She almost felt guilty to be the bearer of bad news. The Milkovich brothers tended to work together to shield Mandy from interacting or being exposed to Terry. Svet had suspicions about why that was the case, but it had never been confirmed, and it wasn't her business, so she didn't inquire.

"Fine, staying busy." It was a dismissive response, one Svet would have used herself if she was the one being summoned. They were never close, and she didn't expect the favor she was about to ask was going to change that. "What did you need to speak with me about in person?" she took another small sip and then folded her hands in her lap. Waiting.

Knocking back the rest of her shot, Svet decided to cut right to the chase, "I need you to set me up with a client. Someone who can pay." She poured a third shot and then crossed her arms. Waiting for Mandy's response. Trying not to get overly defensive.

Mandy just raised her brow, so much like her brother. "Why?"

Having to explain herself wasn't something Svet liked to do. Still, considering she was seeking a favor, asking Mandy to risk her own employment and loyalties by leveraging her connections in the high-end escort industry, she conceded it was a reasonable request. "I need to make money; Terry owes back taxes on house."

Mandy's face, which had been devoid of all emotion, was suddenly frowning, she knew the gravity of that situation, and now she was invested. "How bad?" Mandy downed the rest of her shot and pushed the glass over for a refill.

"At least two years behind, he's about to lose the house." Svet refilled both their glasses. The alcohol was only providing a little liquid courage. Her steely resolve was holding her the rest of the way up.

"Fuck." Said quietly, but Mandy crossed her arms over her chest, tight. Hands clenching.

"He has already asked Mickey to go on run, to help get the money." Svet knew Mandy tried to remain emotionally distant, but she had a soft spot for Mickey of all her brothers. All the siblings knew Mickey had stepped forward to be the point person on runs when they were young, taken the beatings more often than not to shield them even though he had been the youngest boy. The few times a comment had been made alluding to it, Mickey just shrugged it off, not denying but also not acknowledging. Even with his efforts, the other kids had received plenty of their own thrashings, Terry's shitty brand of household governance. The Milkovich kids were all damaged goods, just like herself.

And Svet thought that maybe it was unfair and manipulative to hang Mickey's safety as bait to gain her assistance, but it was a legitimate risk. Practically an inevitability if Terry didn't find a way to pay the back tax bill. In her estimation, the ends justified the means. With Mickey's record, another felony could mean decades behind bars. She was willing to go even further and actively guilt trip Mandy if she didn't get on board.

"How much does he need?" Svet could see her trying to school her face back to being impassive, but her brow was still wrinkled.

"Iggy gave him some cash, but we are still around ten grand short." It was still such a large gap to fill. "Word from Iggy is he's doing stupid shit to try to get the cash." Another sip, trying to quell the churning in her stomach as she really focused on the magnitude of the problem, "Stupider shit than normal even for Terry." She wasn't going to pull punches when painting the picture.

Mandy actually sucked in a breath at hearing the amount and Terry's continued poor choices that affected them all. "Of course, he is," she took another sip too, "Fuck, that's a lot of money. I have a little but nowhere near that amount," she began chewing on her thumbnail, something she only did when agitated. "What are you willing to do?"

Svet felt the ice slip through her veins as she prepared to set her terms. She pushed aside the mild feeling of nausea as she thought about the consequences of this choice; that wasn't the focus right now. "One evening, anything is on the table." Topping up both their shot glasses and taking hers, she clarified her few terms. "Condoms required and no permanent marks, bruising needs to be hidden by clothes." There were clients with certain proclivities. They would pay handsomely for an evening free of restrictions. "They secure a hotel, no personal homes." She had been down that road too many times. People in their own comfortable environments had far fewer boundaries about what they did to their playthings behind their closed doors. The point was to come out of this alive with minimal physical damage and cash in hand.

And now Mandy was all business, focused on the discussion at hand. "And what if they want to bring in another person?"

"Is no problem, but price should reflect," it wouldn't be the first time.

"What about blood?" Squinting, waiting for Svets response.

"As long as there is no permanent damage and hidden below clothes, then is fine." She had to dangle the right kind of bait to get the right price point.

"So one evening, they secure a hotel room, anything goes as long as it's with a condom and doesn't leave permanent damage and can be covered by clothes. I get that right?" Mandy was leaning forward to confirm.

Svet just nodded.

"Oral, anal, vaginal sex are all on the table?" Mandy was goading her a little, trying to get a rise.

Refusing to rise to the bait, "Anything goes." Even if she had reservations, didn't particularly care for penetrative sex, she wasn't going to share that with Mandy. She definitely wasn't going to restrict the evening's activities, which would significantly drop the price point she was shooting for.

"Okay, I have a few ideas of men who have shared they would be interested in some time off the books; I will see what I can arrange." They were both aware someone off books meant someone with interests most worthwhile escort services wouldn't fulfill. It's why the price would be higher, the risk more considerable.

Svet watched Mandy bite her lip as she thought about it; she would have to navigate around the agency she worked through. Svet knew in the Madame's in high-end circles, just a fancy word for a female pimp by her assessment, did not like their girls making side arrangements. They may be classier than the circles Svet had whored around in back in the day, but that didn't mean their methods to keep the girls in line were any different. Mandy was taking a risk to help her out too.

"Spasiba." She tipped her head in acknowledgment.

"When?" Mandy was pulling out her phone to take some notes.

"Soon." Really thinking about it, she wanted it after this weekend. One last weekend with Angie, and then she would be ready. "Any time after this weekend."

Mandy just nodded along as she took notes. Then she looked up, and her gaze was piercing, "What about Mickey, does he know?"

"No. He does not need to know." Said quietly but directly, "Is not his business."

Mandy just scoffed, "Pretty sure if his wife is considering going out and banging some no holds barred dude to make cash to save his childhood home, it would be his business." Her tone was incredulous that Svet didn't see a need to disclose it to Mickey. Likely even more confusing since it hadn't been a secret that Mickey had been her pimp for a while.

"Don't lose your shit; is my body, my choice." Svet felt a little invigorating kick at saying those words, that had rarely been the case in the past. This, however, this really was her choice, "I do not care about Milkovich house," She could tell her face was twisted with disgust just at the thought of it, "I care that Terry, the dumb fuck, will get him thrown in prison again, Zhenya needs a father." The last said while she smacked the tabletop for emphasis with her open hand, "You tell me, what happens, I tell Mickey my plan?" Glaring at Mandy, daring her to draw a different conclusion. She knew very well it would push Mickey to give in to Terry.

"Mickey will be pissed when he finds out," Mandy retorted; her tone was angry, but her face was worried.

Svet wasn't sure if she was worried for her or for Mandy's relationship with Mickey, but regardless the response was the same, "No need for him to find out. One evening and done." She made the motion like she was wiping her hands of the whole matter. She had simmered down now; the casual discussion of using her body to make money was well-trodden and somehow comforting. She knew this game and couldn't be bothered to be sensitive about it.

Mandy looked resigned, "Okay, I'll do it." She slid out of the booth, "I'll set something up and text you when the logistics are worked out." She paused before walking fully past, but neither of them were looking at each other now, and Mandy's voice was low, "Be careful, Svet. These kinds of evenings are dangerous."

Swallowing down the emotions trying to rise as Mandy showed concern, Svet just nodded, indicating she had heard. She knew, this wasn't her first rodeo, as they say. And then Mandy was gone.

Looking over, she could see Kev was occupied talking with Tommy and Kermit over his latest culinary development, a chicken parmigiana on a brioche bun. Stupid fucking idiots. Svet sat for a moment longer, contemplating her decision and questioning her judgment. Wracking her brain for a better option that could be utilized, one she was willing to take.

Blyad. This was all shit. She capped the vodka, slid out of the booth, and went back to work. She needed to stay busy.

***

She had gotten the text from Mandy earlier in the afternoon. Everything was set up for Monday evening. It had been two weeks since Mandy had stopped in at the Alabi, and Svet had started getting antsy, wondering if it was going to happen. Her resolve hadn't wavered, but the time in between putting everything in motion and the date being set had given her time to think. Too much time to think. She was out of practice in suppressing her emotions. She had spent two weeks feeling. And it had been awful.

She wasn't paying attention to the movie playing, a choice of Zhenya's. She was sitting on the couch and focused on enjoying the sensation of Angie's honey blonde hair slipping through her fingers. Angie was lying on the couch with her head in Svet's lap, chattering with Zhenya as they watched together. She was so good with him; it was becoming clear he was going to lose out regardless. At some point, she would have to tell Angie what she had done, after, and it would put an end to this. It felt like her heart literally seized at the thought, and she heard her breath catch and felt Angie look up at her.

"You okay?" Somehow Angie could read her, even when she was trying to keep all her emotions in check. She had let down so many barriers over the years, she found it nearly impossible to rebuild them. So, for now, she was just savoring all these last moments, knowing later it would hurt far more than she was prepared to deal with.

Smiling down at her upturned face, she said what she could, "Yes, tired. That is all." This would be the last Saturday before her date; she wanted to horde all the peaceful happiness out of it, didn't want to ruin anything. Mickey was away with his new lover, had been each weekend recently. It made Saturday nights with Angie seem like they were playing house, something Angie had been pushing for a while, to move in together. She had held her at bay so far, and now it would be a moot point.

Angie's face smoothed out from worried lines to a soft smile, and she turned her face to kiss Svet's thigh under her cheek. Svet had to tighten her lips to make sure no sound, sigh, or sob escaped. In one respect, she was glad this would end soon. All she had found herself wanting to do was tell Angie, ask for her help. She yearned for words of encouragement and reassurance. She wasn't sure when she had become so weak.

She had woken up in cold sweats several times from dreams turned to nightmares as she confided to Angie her plan or, sometimes, it was confessing what had already been done. Angie's response in her dreams had been everything from comforting support to full rejection and disgust. She wanted to beg approval in advance and forgiveness after. She had to keep reminding herself all of those desires were centered around her need to keep Angie around, and it was ultimately unfair. It was selfish. This was better for Angie. Would allow her to move on without guilt. And it would keep her little family safe for a bit longer.

The movie ended twenty minutes later, and she was pulled out of her thoughts as Angie got up and began to hustle Zhenya through his nighttime routine. He was far more amenable to getting direction from her than from either Svet or Mickey. He came out in his PJ's and gave her a big hug, and sleepily trundled off to bed with Angie right there to tuck him in. Deep breath in and blowing it out, Svet reminded herself this is what it was about. About a son who wasn't hardened by the world before even hitting his teenage years, a kid who wasn't exposed to Terry. One who had many years ahead with his father around, whose early years of absence in prison would eventually fade, replaced with new memories. He had a mother who was able to keep him safe, willing to make sacrifices he never needed to have any knowledge of. She could endure anything if that was a possibility.

She moved into the kitchen to clean up the few dishes created from the popcorn and hot chocolate they had made. She heard Angie close Zhenya's door and felt her come up behind and slid her hands around her waist. Pressed along Svet's back, she rested her head against her shoulder. Svet closed her eyes, soaking in the sensation. She had gone years without loving gentle touch, and it had been fine; she hadn't known any better, and now she was counting them down. It was their last carefree evening, even if Svet was the only one that knew it, and she was determined to enjoy every moment.

Turning, she put her arms over Angie's shoulders and drew her in, leaned down, and kissed her with all the passion she didn't know she could even feel for a person. Angie squeaked as she was taken off guard, and Svet gently pushed her back against the counter. Spent endless time just kissing her, tasting her, savoring her. She kept one hand on the back of her neck, slid the other up under her shirt, and felt her breasts and tight nipples. Svet felt warm with desire, could feel herself getting wet. Pulling her hand out of Angie's shirt, she tugged her along to the bedroom.

This wasn’t new; there was a comfortable familiarity about the whole routine. Although they were still hot for each other, there wasn't the frantic desperation that existed when they had first gotten together. There was time to move slowly, enjoy the build, and Svet planned to draw it out. Years of being on display for men's pleasure meant she had very few inhibitions, and she was as comfortable being naked as she was clothed.

She knew she had a conventionally attractive body, slim waist, and generous tits that still got plenty of lascivious looks even after she had gotten slightly older and solidly out of the under twenty-five age bracket. Her looks, her cold attitude while tending bar, were all means to an end, whether that was a larger tip or intimidating the buffoons on the other side of the counter. With Angie, none of that mattered, only that she was pleasing to her eye, and all indications were that even long after the new shine had worn off, she was still attracted. Angie got to see below the pretense, all the layers of protection.

In contrast, Svet knew Angie was insecure about her body and had received plenty of callous remarks about her shape. Svet thought she was beautiful with her round hips and stomach and thick thighs that would wrap tight around her. Her breasts were heavy and had the prettiest dusky pink nipples with large areolas, and Svet could spend hours worshipping them. Svet had been vocal about how much she loved her body, the feeling of Angie's softness beneath her hands or rubbing against her cheeks while she ate her out or that lush ass pressed against her pelvis as they frotted or fucked together. She adored that Angie, who stood nearly six inches shorter, could tuck into the circle of her arms like it was the place she was meant to be. It was a testament to how far Angie had come that she could disrobe with very little shyness and pull Svet down into another kiss, letting their bodies press together.

Angie hadn't been quite as late to discovering her sexuality as Svet had been. Still, according to what she had shared, it wasn't until college when she had begun experimenting that she had clued in to one of the reasons her many teenage sexual experiences had been mostly unsatisfying. Watching Angie gain confidence in herself, in something other than her work over the past few years, had made Svet so happy, like she was more than a used up old whore or bitchy bartender. Like she could be somebody good for Angie, and then maybe, in turn, Angie could see Svet as something more. But now, she was going to blow that all up, and she just hoped Angie would hold on to the confidence she had gained when she moved on. She deserved more than she had gotten previously from friends and lovers; ultimately, she deserved more than what Svet was about to do to her.

"My little Angelochek, you are so beautiful," said as Svet tugged her over to the edge of the bed and pushed her down onto the comforter. Leaning over her, bracing a hand on the bed and using the other to tease her nipples. She kissed her lips, down her neck, and replaced her fingers with her tongue and teeth. Moving her hand down her stomach, taking a moment to knead the softness there and squeeze a generous hip. Angie put her heels on the bed and scooted back a little, opening herself up to Svet.  
"Please, Lana, need you." She was pressing up into the hand on her lower abdomen, seeking stimulation.

Svet didn't want to make her wait any longer even though she could stare at her, touch her, for hours on end if Angie wasn't so impatient. She ran her fingers along Angie's wet pussy lips and felt her shuddered with desire. Kissing down her body, Svet kneeled by the edge of the bed, gripped Angie's thighs, and began tasting her. Angie wrapped those thighs around her head, crossing her ankles, just like she knew Svet loved. She was gloriously surrounded by Angie's flesh and her scent as she anchored Angie's bucking hips to the bed. Angie had a firm grip in Svet's hair, pulling her in, almost smothering her. This was Svet's version of perfection. It was in close competition for when Angie actually rode her face, and smothering was an intentional part of that game.

Teasing Angie's clit ruthlessly with her tongue in the way she knew would get her off, she slipped several fingers inside, and felt her dripping. Being surrounded by her musky smell ramped Svet higher, and she squeezed her thighs together, trying to get some relief. She could reach down and finger herself, but she didn't want to let go of Angie's writhing hips or remove her fingers.

"Fuck, Svet, right there." Angie was pushing back against her mouth aggressively. Looking up her body, she could see Angie's large breasts heave and the hand not gripping her hair was anchored in the comforter above her head. "Oh fuck, Lana," Hand tightening even further, making Svet's scalp ache, "Yeah, right there." Svet kept going, would go all night if she could.

Svet felt Angie tighten around her fingers, the first fluttering of her orgasm. A few more flicks of her tongue and adding a third finger, filling her up properly, and she was done for. Coming hard, using Svet's head as leverage, she leaned up, pressing Svet's face even harder against her pubis, and for a second there Svet really couldn't breathe, but she just watched Angie's face as it twisted up with pleasure and then she fell back against the bed. Fingers gentling on Svet's scalp, scratching lightly as she lay there for a few recovering.

Svet lightened her ministrations on Angie's now extremely sensitive clit, helping the feelings to continue for just a little longer. When she was done, she moved to lay her head on Angie's abdomen with her hands resting on Angie's upper ribs, partially tucked beneath her large breasts. Taking a quiet moment. Listening to Angie breathe. Closing her eyes, Svet slipped into an almost trance-like state, fully physically in the moment, but her emotions were floating away, disconnected so she could be present. This was a tool she had used back in the day and hadn't felt it necessary to pull out in a long time, but if she were able to feel emotions right now, it would be scary how easily she slipped that glove back on.

Then Angie encouraged her up further, to lay on top of her where they could kiss more, both soaking in the feel of the skin on skin contact as Svet shared Angie's taste with her. Angie was slightly slower in her responses after coming, but it didn't take long before she rolled Svet onto her back and reached down to finger her in return. Svet was already so close, turned on unbearably by everything she had just done. Angie slid her fingers between her wet pussy lips and rubbed against her clit just right; they had been doing this long enough to know what worked and what to avoid. Angie never made a move to penetrate her once she understood Svet didn't enjoy it. Angie always focused on the acts they both found mutual joy and satisfaction in.

Angie dipped her tongue into Svet's mouth, tweaked her nipple hard, and caught her clit with a nail, and Svet was gone, arching up into the sensation as she came. Angie pressed on her mound, giving her friction, and then just left her hand there, possessively. A casual caress that made Svet think of ownership and how much Angie had claimed her heart, and that she would gladly give her body to her over and over again, for as long as she wanted it. But she knew Angie wanted and needed more. Angie rested her head on Svet's shoulder, their breathing naturally synched.

Eventually, they became chilled and slid between the sheets, Angie's back to Svet's chest while Angie played with her fingers, and they spoke quietly.

"I miss you during the week Lana, not getting to see you except on the weekends is starting to wear on me." Said gently, Angie knew how skittish Svet was around concrete commitment and declarations.

Svet wished she could be a better person for Angie in this way but considering she was getting ready to break her heart, she didn’t figure it was the time to lament who she was. That floaty feeling of her emotions being disconnected disappeared, and she slammed somewhat roughly back into the present psychologically. This was a conversation they had been having for more than six months, and Svet didn't want to have it again. Didn't want to taint what was very possibly the last evening together with what was never going to be.

"I know, but timing is not good." She hoped Angie would drop it.

"If not now, when Lana? Are you even interested in living together at some point?" She tightened her arms around Svet when she would have moved away. Svet's response was predictable, to escape.

"I don't know, maybe in the new year." Hopefully, that would put this argument to bed for now.

There was a quiet pause, "Is this because you're bi?" asked in a tentative voice.

With a sigh now, Svet really did roll away to lay on her back, and in her periphery, she could see Angie turn over as well.

"Bi, what is bi? I never say bi; you say bi." Blowing out a breath in frustration, she put a hand behind her head to keep from gesticulating wildly. This was an insecurity of Angie's that she really didn't understand. "I sleep with who I want to sleep with, for a long time now that is only you." The words tasted like ash in her mouth as she thought about her upcoming date. Not that she wanted to sleep with whatever person Mandy had arranged her evening with.

"I know, but you slept with men before," Angie shrugged as she said it.

"You slept with men before, does not make you bi." It wasn't the point, and Svet knew it, "I was whore before; I sleep with whoever pimp tells me to sleep with." Why was this so hard for Angie to understand?

"Don't say that about yourself." Angie sounded physically pained to hear her say that.

Svet was done with this, sitting up; she turned around. "I was whore, that is what I was. I can deal with it," She knew this wasn't the best tone to use. "Why not you?" Moving off the bed to get some sleeping pants and a tank top and to avoid facing Angie, "For right price, I put up with stupid fucking skin stick, wanting had nothing to do with it." Ripping open one of her dresser drawers, she was glad it caught and didn't crash to the floor, "Now I have choice, I choose you. Before you, I choose men sometimes. I don't choose men now." Grabbing her tank top and putting it on angrily, "Why is not enough?"

And then Angie was behind her, wrapping her arms around her, "Okay, your right, Lana." Squeezing harder, holding her together when she felt like she wanted to fly apart, "I shouldn't have asked that. I just don't understand why you are reluctant to live with me." She sounded choked up, but Svet couldn't see her face, "I just need to know that at some point in the future, you will be interested. That this is going somewhere."

Swallowing thickly, Svet thought about her options. About what the future could hold and what it was unlikely to hold. She told the truth, "I love you," and then she lied, "of course this is going somewhere." She squeezed the arms around her waist and took it one step further, "Soon, we'll live together soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments and try to respond to all of them...basically Comments are love. ❤️
> 
> Luluxa has created a beautiful companion art piece for this chapter and you can find all of her work including this piece here: [Luluxa on Tumbler](https://luluxa.tumblr.com//)
> 
> Human traffiking is global problem and it's worthwhile to take some time to know the signs that someone may be being trafficked so you can provide assistance. Here are two worthwhile resources and information on why decriminalizing sex work is so critical:
> 
> [Human Trafficking Hotline](https://humantraffickinghotline.org/)
> 
> [Recoganizing Human Trafficking](https://polarisproject.org/recognizing-human-trafficking/)
> 
> [Why Sex Work Should Be Decriminalized](https://www.hrw.org/news/2019/08/07/why-sex-work-should-be-decriminalized#:~:text=Decriminalizing%20sex%20work%20maximizes%20sex,step%20toward%20destigmatizing%20sex%20work.)
> 
> **Russian Words:  
> **  
>  Pozhaluysta: Please  
> Zhenya: Nickname for Yev, affectionate and what family and friends would call him  
> Pridurki – Harmless Idiots  
> Ponimaesh – Understand?  
> stairy dolboeb:(old fucker)  
> Misha/Micka:Affectionate Russian version of Mickey's name  
> Sdelannogo ne vorotish: "What's done is done" type phrase  
> Budem: Cheers  
> Angelochek – Affectionate term for Angie meaning Angel


End file.
